Boxed In
by cmar
Summary: PRTF: The Silver Hills police are investigating the kidnapping and murder of Wes Collins, and Eric Myers is the prime suspect. Third in 'Red Fire' series. Contains slash. Complete.
1. Day One: Disappearance

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

Third in the 'Red Fire' series. This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Readers of my 'Year of Time' stories may recognize Jimmy Duran, a detective in the Silver Hills Police Department who was Jen's partner. For obvious reasons, he has a new partner here. 

This idea just sort of came to me - partly from a plot I'd originally had in mind for a Batman story, partly from memories of a particularly nasty kidnapping that was in the news when I was young and impressionable, partly from my desire to write "Power Rangers meets Law and Order." (No, it's not a crossover, except in spirit.) Fair warning; some scenes are quite intense; they were disturbing to write and may be equally disturbing to read. That said, there's only one fairly graphically violent scene; it's more a matter of emotional intensity. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day One - Disappearance

* * *

"We are here to celebrate my son's life, not to mourn his death. To reflect on what he accomplished, on the joy he experienced, the love he gave and received, not on the way in which he left us..." Alan Collins' voice quivered just a tiny bit, but he took a breath and carried on, his grief seeming barely under control. 

Eric watched him, making sure his own face showed only the appropriate solemnity. He was supposed to be mourning a close friend, after all, even if almost no one knew exactly how close he and Wes had been. He didn't have to fake the puffy eyes, the pale skin, the exhaustion in his face. A week with almost no sleep does that to you. 

But he had to control the impulse to examine the faces of the mourners, had to stop his eyes from nervously darting from person to person. What were they thinking, all these people? One of them knew the truth -- or thought he did. 

And especially he shouldn't be looking at the two detectives sitting across the aisle, now staring in his direction with hard, suspicious faces. Watching... the same way they had watched, and questioned, and followed, for much of the last week. Anger stirred again. Naturally, they had come after _him_. The upstart from the wrong side of the tracks, the guy who had pushed his way into a position of power at Bio-Lab. The guy who had every reason to resent Wesley Collins for being the boss's son, and so easily walking into an equal share of that power. 

They were right about that part anyway, he reflected with an inner, rueful smile. As far as it went. He _had_ resented Wes, at times. They had had their conflicts, including some violent ones. Eric was well aware of his own worst weakness, a temper that had often gotten him into trouble. A temper that had flared again a week ago, at Wes, the person he was supposed to love... guilt, now, making him bow his head, blinking back the sting of tears; he was just tired and over-emotional, but he didn't fight it off the way he normally would; it was good, made him look like the grieving friend, helped hide what he really felt. 

Then he looked up again as Collins' speech came to an end. There were a few seconds of silence, and then his own part in this charade was announced. 

"Now Eric Myers, Wes's partner and friend, will say a few words." 

He forced himself to his feet, and walked forward stiffly. Only a quick glance at the coffin as he passed. It was closed, and everyone knew why; no way to make that battered and burned remnant of a human being presentable. 

A moment later he took his place at the podium. Looked out over rows of faces, staring at him; a lot of people, but what did you expect for the son of the most rich and powerful man in Silver Hills? Not entirely fair, Eric reminded himself, many of these people genuinely liked Wes; a lot of them weren't faking their grief, the way he was. But many of them felt something else, too. Suspicion, some of them not bothering to hide it. Not his Silver Guardians; they were too disciplined. Whatever they were feeling was hidden behind rigidly blank expressions as they sat in neat rows at the back. 

"I first met Wes in school, more than ten years ago," he began, not having to fake the unsteadiness of his voice, even if it was mostly tension. "We weren't always friends. But we always -- respected each other. Grew to be close, as we worked together over the years. I'm-" He paused, an unexpected lump rising in his throat. "I'm a better person for knowing Wes Collins." 

He stopped long enough to sweep a glance over the faces before him again. Some were tearful, some impassive, some curious, some openly hostile. Most of them must be wondering how Alan Collins had allowed him to attend, let alone speak at, the funeral of the man he was suspected of murdering. 

"Only a week ago, Wes was still with us. A week ago, he spent his last day at Bio-Lab, the company he had come to love. A day at his job, as co-commander of the Silver Guardians, and my partner. I never thought, when we said goodbye that night, that I would never see him again." 

The two detectives had been looking around, discretely watching the mourners. Now they both glanced up at him. They knew what he was saying wasn't strictly true. Wes and he hadn't exactly said goodbye that day. Shouts and a slammed door had been more like it. That stupid argument... and it also wasn't true that it was the last time he had seen Wes. 

Only a week ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. As Eric paused, the words of his prepared speed blurring, he let his mind retreat to that day, to that moment, to the way he had let bitter anger and frustration take him over. It had started with jealousy... the most dangerous emotion...

* * *

"All right. What's the problem?" Wes's voice held just enough exaggerated patience to tip Eric's annoyance into anger. 

"Did I say there was a problem?" he retorted. 

"You don't have to when you look at me like that." Wes closed his office door and brushed by him, putting his desk between them and sitting down, wearing an expression that clearly said how unreasonable he thought Eric was being. 

He knew he should drop it, knew he should just walk out and go back to his own office at Bio-Lab to cool down. But somehow that would be giving in. "Are you really meeting that jerk tonight?" Eric demanded. 

"You heard him. He wants to discuss company business over drinks. What's wrong with that?" 

"Yeah, right. He didn't seem interested in discussing anything with _me_. Hardly even looked at me." 

Russell Holland. A new addition to Bio-Lab. He had been hired as chief accountant after the previous chief had retired six months ago. Came with impressive recommendations. Was supposed to be doing a good job. Was obviously ambitious. And was also in his early thirties, tall, very handsome, blond, well-built. None of which had bothered Eric until he had begun to make an obvious and determined effort over the last weeks to get close to Wes. 

Just twenty minutes ago Eric had come to Wes's office and found them deep in discussion of the finer points of Bio-Lab's overseas investments. Wes had invited him in -- but Holland had shaken hands, smiled, and then ignored Eric completely despite his attempts to join in. Eric's temper had already been at the boiling point when the two of them had walked to the door, Holland had given Wes a dazzling smile and a warm handshake, invited him out for drinks after work, nodded at Eric with an expression that implied he was surprised to see him still there, and left. 

"Well, I'm sure he didn't mean to be rude," Wes said, his expression softening. "He was just a little -- tactless, I guess." 

And again, Eric could have dropped it; could have let Wes soothe him out of his angry mood. But he didn't. "Drinks. That big shit-eating smile. The way he's always coming by your office, usually just in time for lunch. He wants something. And I think it's something a lot closer than foreign investments." 

"Don't tell me you're jealous." 

"That's not what I meant." Eric's gaze focused suspiciously on Wes's face. "But it's interesting that you took it that way." 

"Well -- what _did_ you mean, then?" 

"He's just trying to use you to suck up to your father. You should stay away from him." 

There was an edge of anger in Wes's voice now as he answered. "Doesn't it ever occur to you that someone might just _like_ me?" 

"Not him. Not half of the jerks around here. You're the boss's son and that's all that matters." 

"Really? Is that all that matters to you?" 

"Of course not. But I'm not a suck-up, like Holland." 

"What makes you so sure that's all he cares about? Maybe he'd like you too, if you made any effort to be friendly." 

"You're making enough effort for both of us." Eric eyed Wes coldly. "Maybe I _should_ be jealous." 

"Oh, come on. He's not even gay." 

"Oh, yeah? How the hell would you know?" 

"How would you?" Wes countered. "And even if he is, what difference does it make?" 

"A guy who looks like that asks you for a date and you don't think it makes any _difference_?" 

Wes's voice sharpened. "It's not a date. And _you_ seem to be the one who thinks he's so great-looking. Maybe you're the one who wants to go out with him." 

"Well, _I'm_ not the one he's interested in, am I?" 

"Look..." Wes took a deep breath. "You're mad because Russell was rude. Fine. But don't try to blame _me_ for it." 

One more time, he could have backed off. But... "If you didn't like having assholes like him hanging around kissing up to you so much, they wouldn't have the chance to treat me like shit!" 

"The only one acting like an asshole right now is _you_," Wes muttered, just loud enough to be heard. 

Eric felt his back stiffen in anger. "Are you going out with him tonight or not?" 

"Don't see any reason not to." Wes stared back at him, blue-green eyes narrowed. 

"Then why don't you just go ahead and fuck him, too!" Eric kept his voice just low enough not to be heard outside, and then turned, took a few steps, and yanked the door open. 

"Oh right, get mad over nothing, yell at me and then walk out! You're such a goddamn bastard sometimes!" 

The anger in Wes's shout stopped Eric for a moment. He saw two people in the hallway look in their direction curiously. But his temper overcame any thought of discretion as he turned back. "Yeah, I'm a bastard," he snarled. "Better than a spoiled brat who can't think about anything except himself!" 

Wes had followed him. They glared at each other furiously until Wes stepped back and slammed the door with a bang.

* * *

Love. What good was it when it made you miserable? When it meant the slightest harsh word, the first sign of disinterest -- or interest in someone else -- could plunge you into the depths of despair? 

"God, I'm such an idiot..." Eric murmured aloud. He was home now, pacing his small living room, after spending most of the rest of his workday in his office, hunched over his desk trying not to snap at anyone who spoke to him, hoping in vain that Wes would show up, wanting to talk. But he hadn't. And now that most of his anger had dissipated, Eric couldn't blame him. 

The argument had been almost entirely his own fault, just stupid jealousy. Not even sexual jealousy, not really, but anger at the way Russell had kissed up to the boss's son so blatantly, the same thing he had seen so many times before; so many people who figured Wes was the one who counted, the one whose friendship could do them some good; so many people who ignored or looked down on Eric despite the fact that he and Wes were supposed to be equals. 

Wes always acted as if he didn't notice, or just shrugged and laughed it off. Always tried to joke Eric out of his anger. That was frustrating, annoying, as if his feelings didn't count for anything... but, to be fair, he knew Wes did it because he hated to see Eric unhappy. Wes understood... just didn't see the use of getting angry about something no one could do anything about. 

That was a basic difference between them; Eric understood the purpose of anger and revenge. Let someone get away with doing you harm and they'd only do it again, and worse. Wes rarely got angry, tried to avoid it, tried not to think badly of anyone. Yes, they were very different, all right, like night and day: dark and blond, bitter and cheerful, poor and rich, pessimist and optimist, cynical and trusting. 

And yet they had fallen in love despite the contrasts, or perhaps because of them. Each of them had seen qualities in the other that he felt were lacking in himself. It occurred to Eric that it was about six months now since they had become lovers. And this was the first time they had had a serious fight. His mouth quirked into a reluctant smile. Not bad at all, for a relationship that included _him_ -- and his temper. 

Eric looked at his watch, sighing, feeling another twinge of anger as he wondered if Wes was still on his little date. Had to stop thinking that way; Wes was right, there was no reason to be jealous. Eight o'clock. Wes might be home by now. Before he could think about it too long and possibly decide to wait until morning, Eric picked up the phone. 

Ringing -- long enough to tell him that Wes wasn't going to answer. Maybe he had turned off his cellphone in the restaurant or bar, or maybe he was driving. Eric took a deep breath as the voicemail service picked up. 

"Wes. We need to talk. Call me." 

He put the phone down gently. He could wait. Wes would call soon. He'd be happy and relieved. Maybe he'd even want to come over, so they could make up in person... Eric smiled.

* * *

Nine o'clock. Wes was always forgetting to pick up his messages. Eric dialed the number again, and again listened to empty ringing and the sound of voicemail picking up. 

"Wes..." He trailed off; then spoke again abruptly. "Look, I screwed up. Just call me, okay?"

* * *

Ten o'clock. Eric refused to think too hard about why Wes hadn't called. Must have had a couple of drinks too many, yeah, he was upset and had gotten a little drunk... Must have forgotten all about turning his phone back on, Eric thought, as the ringing ended with voicemail again. 

"Don't you check your messages?" He paused, throat tightening. "I'm home. Waiting. Call me."

* * *

Eleven o'clock. Wes had to be home by now. Unless... but Eric's mind refused to go there. Wes would never do something like that; wouldn't be with someone else, and certainly not someone he hardly even knew. Would he? No, he must still be angry; this was his way of punishing Eric. And it was working beautifully. He picked up the phone, this time dialing Wes's private line at the Collins house. More ringing... and then the answering machine picking up. 

"Wes, I know I was wrong. I guess you're still mad, but please call me tonight. I'm -- I'm sorry."

* * *

Midnight. Eric put down the phone. He had checked with the hospital and with the Silver Guardians, trying to sound casual, as if he was just bored and wondering if anything was up. No reports of any accidents or unusual hospital admissions. Of course not. He just wasn't going to call...

* * *

_"Dammit, it's midnight. We should've been done an hour ago." _

"You're the one who wanted to bring him all the way out here." 

"And you're the one who said it would be easy to dig this fucking thing up." 

Wes could hear the voices, blurry and indistinct. Coming from somewhere nearby. Along with strange sounds, faint grunts of exertion, and then a patter of something falling... He could feel air move over his face, cool night air, bringing the smell of freshly-dug earth. His eyes cracked open, but it didn't seem to make much difference -- it was dark. A light overhead. The moon. Outside, he realized vaguely. He was outside. Hard ground underneath him. There were more unidentifiable sounds, then the voices again, a little clearer now. 

"Okay, we're ready." 

"Finally. Let's get it down there." 

The sound of something heavy being dragged, then a thud and cursing. Wes tried to turn his head, succeeded in looking far enough in that direction to see more light. Some kind of lamps, or flashlights. 

"Is everything in? Now him..." 

They were coming. Two of them, dark forms coming closer, looming over him as he blinked up, trying to see. Moonlight glimmered over blond hair and a face he knew... Wes tried to talk, tried to ask them, his tongue thick and uncooperative. All that came out was a mumble. "Russ... Wha... Wha... happen'g..." 

"Shit! He recognized me! Goddamn it!" 

"I've got him." The other man, shorter and darker, bent over him. Light reflected for an instant from metal; something sharp jabbed into Wes's arm. "That'll do it." 

"But he saw me!" 

"Come on, let's just get him in there." 

Coldness was spreading from the place where the needle had pierced his skin. Wes gasped in fear, unable to resist as two sets of hands grabbed him. He was dragged roughly over grass and dirt, held over empty space, and then dropped. A whimper was all he could manage as he hit a hard surface after a brief fall. 

"You idiot, you let him wake up!" 

"Will you relax? He's so out of it, he won't be sure of anything. Come on, just get the nails." 

The coldness and numbness were spreading up his arm, his mind was spiraling down into the blackness that awaited it. Wes made a last effort to move, to escape, even just to cry out for help. But it was no use. All he could do was make another small sound as darkness closed over him.

* * *

TBC... 


	2. Day Two: Discovery

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Two - Discovery

* * *

He was cold. Cold and lying on something hard. It was dark, and quiet. For a few moments Wes tried to focus, not understanding how he had gotten in this cold, hard, silent, dark place. 

When he reached out, his hands found a rough surface under him. Hard and flat, but textured, then a tiny crack... Wood, he realized, planks of wood. He reached farther, until his fingers bumped into a wall. As he rolled toward it his head spun sickeningly, but he tried to ignore it and pressed his hand against the vertical surface. More wooden planks, the same as what he was lying on. A floor, somewhere? In a dark room? 

Cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position. As he straightened, his head hit something, starting another wave of nausea in his stomach. Wes sank back down to one elbow, trying to take deep breaths. When the sickness subsided he looked up, and raised a hand to feel. Another surface, wood, cracks, more planks. He became conscious of the dank smell of earth... digging... a foggy memory floated into his mind... the men he had seen, they had been digging a hole... 

"No..." It was just a whisper. Recklessly he sat up again, hardly feeling it this time when his head knocked against the surface above him. Frantically he felt around -- flat, hard surfaces, on all four sides, above, below. "No!" he cried, louder this time. 

A coffin... They had buried him alive! Blind panic poured ice water through his heart as he pounded his fists against uncaring wood, shouting in a frenzy of horror. The darkness seemed to close in, thick, suffocating. His mind blanked into the primitive need to escape, to get out and away from this trap, this box... 

When Wes could think again, he was huddled in a corner, panting, his knuckles raw, splinters under his fingernails. But something had brought him back from the terror that still lurked at the back of his mind. This wasn't a coffin. He clung to the thought, examining it carefully. It was too big, for one thing. About six feet long, maybe, he had been lying full length with at least a couple of inches to spare. Three feet wide, about. High enough for him to be almost able to sit up straight. Coffins weren't this big. They weren't made of wooden planks, not anymore. 

A box, then. He was still fairly sure he was buried underground, but he was in a box, not a coffin. And he had felt something while he was clawing and pounding on the walls. Carefully, he ran his hands over the bottom again. They found something hard. A large object, about a foot long, almost square, with a handle. One end was round, with a curved, glassy surface. What felt like a switch. It slid as he pushed at it. 

Sudden whiteness, and Wes shielded his eyes as light flooded his small prison. It was a flashlight. One of the large utility types, he saw as his vision adjusted. The sheer relief of being able to see... It took a few seconds before he collected himself enough to notice what was around him. 

It wasn't much. A large bottle of water lying against the wall. A package of something in plastic near it. Beef jerky, he saw when he picked it up. A folded gray blanket. An empty bucket in the corner. It didn't take long to figure out what that was for. 

He felt relief, at first. They obviously didn't mean for him to die; they had provided food and water, even light and a blanket. And air. With the help of the flashlight he could see the end of a pipe coming through the roof of the box. It was maybe four or five inches across -- when he put his eye to it, he could see faint light at the other end, a glimpse of what could be a rosy dawn sky though the branches of a tree. Couldn't tell how long it was -- but it meant he could breathe, and he felt an irrational comfort at the tenuous connection it gave him to the outside world. 

But then the sobering thought came that even if they intended to keep him alive, it was also obvious that his captors had no intention of letting him go anytime soon.

* * *

Eric looked up hopefully, and a little apprehensively, at the tap on his office door. Just the way he had been doing all morning, at every footstep, every voice, every time the phone rang. Each time hoping it would be Wes, standing in the doorway with a hesitant smile; or his voice on the phone, a little unsure, and then the way his eyes would light up when Eric smiled, and when he apologized... 

But there was the other possibility too. Wes, walking in with a serious and unhappy expression, closing the door before he said, _'It's just not working out...'_ Eric shook his head. Big, strong, tough Eric Myers, reduced to mooning around like a lovesick teenager. Pathetic. 

And of course it wasn't Wes. Close, though, it was his father, Alan Collins. Eric started to get out of his chair. 

"Don't get up, Eric. I'm looking for Wes. You know where he is?" 

"No sir." Eric carefully kept his face blank. "I haven't seen him since yesterday." 

"Yesterday? I thought he was..." Collins glanced over his shoulder, then stepped in and closed the door. "I thought he was with you last night." 

"No, sir. He went out for drinks with the new guy, Holland. Then I assume he went home." 

"He never came home last night." Collins hesitated, perhaps considering the same possibility that had crossed Eric's mind more than once. But then his eyes narrowed with real concern. "No one's seen him this morning, either." 

"He didn't check in with Steve?" 

"No. Missed an appointment with a client, that's why I'm looking for him." 

A cold trickle of fear began to ice its way into Eric's heart. "I called him last night. Left messages. He never called back." 

"I've tried calling him this morning. It's not like him not to answer." 

"Neither is disappearing without a word." With only a moment's hesitation, Eric raised his arm, eyes on Collins' face as he called, "Wes! Wes, can you hear me?" into his morpher. Nothing. Wes would never ignore a call on his morpher, no matter how angry he might be. Eric jumped to his feet. "Come on. Russell Holland was the last person we know he was with. Let's start there." 

"I'm right behind you."

* * *

"Wes didn't come in today?" Holland stared up at them, eyes wide. Genuinely surprised? Something in his reaction impressed Eric as not being quite right, but he couldn't pin it down... and it might be just his new-found dislike of the man. 

"No," Collins said. "Where did you go last night? When did he leave?" 

"We went to the Green Table for happy hour. Had a couple of beers and some food. He left just before eight o'clock; I stayed for another half-hour. That's the last I saw of him." He paused. "You think something happened to him?" 

"Wes wouldn't just not show up without telling anyone." 

"What happened last night?" Eric interrupted. "Did Wes say anything about going somewhere else?" 

"Well... he seemed a little nervous about something. I don't know what. Actually, he mentioned wanting to talk to you." 

"He did?" Eric knew why, or thought he did, but wasn't about to say anything in front of Holland. With a frown, he went on. "Did he say he was going home?" 

"He didn't really say anything. Sorry I can't be more help." 

"Where was he parked?" 

"We were both in the parking lot behind the bar." 

"You've been very helpful," Collins said. "Thanks." He headed for the door, Eric following. They both stopped in the hallway and looked at each other. "What now?" the older man asked, his voice beginning to crack with strain. 

"I'll put out an alert to the Guardians, then get out to the Green Table, look for Wes's car, and ask some questions. Meanwhile -- I think it's time to call the cops."

* * *

Lina Munroe stopped for a moment after climbing out of the car to stare up at the tall building she was facing, up rows of windows reflecting the early afternoon sun. A big building, speaking of money, power, and prestige. She could have known just by looking at it, even if she hadn't known the kind of people who had made their careers inside. 

A car door slammed behind her, and footsteps approached. "Have you ever been here before?" a voice asked. 

Lina glanced up at her partner's face. Jimmy Duran, a good fifteen years younger than her own mid... well, late forties. A good-looking man, olive skin, dark hair, warm brown eyes. Just a kid, of course. They all looked like kids to her now. 

"Nope. Twenty years in the SHPD, and I've never been inside Bio-Lab," she answered. "Kinda strange, when I stop to think about it." 

"Not much call for us here, since the mutant attacks stopped. And of course, they have their own people." 

The Silver Guardians. Yes, Bio-Lab tended to take care of their own problems, with a little manpower to spare for the PD. They had been quite a help in the aftermath of the mutant problem, and since then. Most of the Silver Hills cops considered them almost a part of the force. That was why they were here so quickly, for a person who had been missing less than a day. Not because Wesley Collins was Alan Collins' son, but because he was a Silver Guardian, and someone both she and Jimmy knew personally, although they had never worked together. 

"Well, let's go," she said. A quick walk took them through a small parking lot and up a pathway to a set of glass doors. Then inside, into a large lobby, a few scattered people looking up curiously, eyes immediately focusing on the badges they had clipped to their jackets. And a man, middle-aged, tall and imposing, his air of command marred by a face creased with anxiety, obviously waiting for them. 

"Are you here from the police?" he asked. 

"I'm Detective Munroe, and this is Detective Duran," Lina said. "Are you Alan Collins?" Not that she needed to ask, she had seen him on the news often enough. 

"Yes. It's my son who's missing." 

"I know. Is there someplace we can talk privately?" 

"We can start on the way to my office." Collins turned and took off at a brisk walk. 

Lina lengthened her own stride -- not easy, considering he had almost a foot on her -- and caught up, Jimmy taking his place on Collins' other side. "Mr. Collins, when was the last time you know that anyone saw Wes?" she asked, a little breathlessly. 

"Last night he went out for drinks with our chief accountant, Russell Holland. Eric Myers and I already questioned him. He says Wes left just before eight. Then..." Collins slowed a little, the worry he must be feeling showing in his voice. "He never came home. Didn't show up at work this morning." He led them past a secretary's desk and opened the door to a large, rather dark, and bare-looking office. 

"Did you try to locate him last night?" Jimmy asked as they filed in. 

"No." Lina thought she saw a shadow of what might have been evasiveness cross his face. Guilt, at not having tried to find his son sooner? "Wes goes out fairly often. He's an adult. I didn't worry until he didn't show up at work." 

"Do you know anyone he might have visited last night? Anyone he might have stayed with?" 

Again that trace of discomfort, but he answered quickly enough. "No." 

Lina took over again. "We'll need to talk to his friends." 

"Of course. His closest friend is his partner, Eric Myers." 

"Yes, we know Eric." She traded a glance with Jimmy. They both knew Eric; both of them respected and even liked him despite his somewhat prickly personality. "How about enemies?" she asked next. "Anyone you know of who might want to harm Wes?" 

Collins shrugged, his face darkening. "He's a Guardian. And a Ranger, even if he's not very active anymore. He's worked with the PD; you probably know better than I do what kind of enemies he might have. Plus..." He sighed, raising a hand to rub his face. "I have my own share of competitors, rivals, people who might use him to get at me." 

Lina gave him a sympathetic look, but all she said was, "See if you can get a list together for us. We'll need to talk to some of your people, including..." she consulted her notes, "Russell Holland. And we'd like to see Eric." 

"He went to try to find Wes's car." 

"Where?" 

"The Green Table. That's where Wes and Holland went last night." Collins looked from one to the other of them. "The Silver Guardians are at your disposal. Everyone at Bio-Lab will cooperate completely. Just find my son." 

"We'll do our best, sir." 

Their interview with Holland was brief, and produced nothing more than what Collins had told them. Then they were on their way, back through the hallways, to the lobby with its people trying not to stare obviously, then out to the street where they headed for their car. Jimmy was opening his door when he said it, his face grim. 

"I have a bad feeling about this." 

"You ain't the only one, kid."

* * *

Eric was about to go back into the Green Table when they arrived. He stopped and waited, watching them approach, seeing how they surveyed the area, looking for anything out of place. Both detectives were familiar faces, Lina Munroe and Jimmy Duran. Good cops, smart and efficient. The SHPD had sent their best, and he was grateful. 

"Hello, Eric," Jimmy said as they came face to face on the sidewalk. 

"Jimmy." He nodded at Lina. 

"Found anything?" 

"Nothing. No sign of Wes's car. What Holland told us checks out; the owner remembers seeing the two of them yesterday, says they had a couple of drinks, Wes left around eight and Holland stayed a little while longer." 

"Which means we get copies of credit card receipts and start tracking down customers who were here last night," Jimmy said with a sigh. "See if anyone saw Wes outside." 

"And if no one did?" Eric muttered. He didn't really expect an answer. And he didn't get one. "The Guardians can help with that, or anything else you need," he added. 

"Good. We also have to get back to Bio-Lab and do some interviewing there." Lina sighed. "Going to be a long day." She and Jimmy headed inside. 

Eric followed more slowly. It had started to sink in. Wes was gone. He must be in trouble, he'd never just take off like this. Eric turned in the doorway to look back out at the street. _Where are you?_ he asked silently. _What's happening to you?_

* * *

Wes sat with his back propped against the side of the box, chewing on a mouthful of beef jerky. It would be night soon. With the sun high in the sky there had been enough light coming through the pipe for him to see dimly but clearly, and he'd spent some time going over every inch of his small prison, looking for weaknesses, and found nothing. Then, still feeling tired and groggy, he had slept, until hunger had wakened him to find the light fading into darkness again. 

Night. What was Eric doing now? And his father. They must be worried. Must be looking for him. They'd find him. Somehow. He clung to that thought, trying not to wonder how long it would be before someone came. 

Exactly what had happened to him? It was foggy, unclear... he must have been drugged... he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring back the images of the night before, a blond head bending over him in the moonlight... Russell. They had gone out for drinks, had some food, talked for a couple of hours. It had gotten late, Wes had been uncomfortable all evening, wondering if Eric would call, wanting to make up after that ridiculous fight. He had decided to leave, to call Eric himself, maybe go to his house. Russell had said he was staying. Then outside, the parking lot. His car. There had been a man, walking up behind him as he unlocked the car door. Wes had moved aside, assuming he wanted to get past. Something had hit him in the back of the neck, a sharp jolt of pain, and then nothing. 

After that -- the next thing was a vague memory of waking up, lying on hard ground, seeing those two men digging a grave. Noises and voices. Faces bending over him... Russell. Yes, it must have been Russell. Blond hair, the face indistinct but recognizable, and his voice... But _why_? 

Eric had been right about him. Just one more reason to get out of here; to tell him that. To tell him... just to see him again...

* * *

Russell Holland was angry. He stared at Chris. _Just can't get good help._ The thought should have been funny, but this was no laughing matter. Chris had screwed things up, and now he refused to put them right. Chris, his old friend from high school, Chris who had always been so willing to do anything Russell wanted, who had helped him with a little theft and embezzlement here and there in the past -- and profited from it very nicely -- who had agreed to this more ambitious plan with hardly a question. If only it hadn't been a two-man job, if only he could have done it alone... Chris, who was going to force him into doing something desperate. 

"He saw my face. He said my name. I can't afford to let him go," Russell repeated. 

"Like I said already, he was all doped up. Might not even remember. And who's going to believe him anyway?" 

"Alan Collins' son? A Guardian, a Ranger? Everyone'll believe him." 

"Well, shit. I never heard of anyone being convicted of anything just 'cause one guy thinks he saw him do something. You always worry too much." 

"That's because I have the brains to worry." Russell eyed him coldly. 

"Just relax, will you?" Chris said. "We'll send his old man the morpher, just like you planned. We'll get the ransom. Then, if you're so worried, you can just split. You won't need a job anymore, anyway, not with your half." 

Russell frowned. Chris didn't deserve half of the ten million dollars they expected to get from Wes's father. Should never have promised it to him. And now -- maybe there'd be no need to give it to him... "I don't want to spend the rest of my life being a fugitive," he muttered. 

"Don't worry about it," Chris repeated. 

"Easy for you to say. He didn't recognize _you_." 

"Look, _I_ don't want to spend the rest of my life with a murder rap hanging over my head. So forget about killing him. We'll get the money, we'll take off; I'll call the Guardians and tell them where to find him." 

"You won't change your mind?" Russell asked softly. Last chance. 

"Nope. Nothing's gonna change my mind." Chris frowned. "I wouldn't let a dog die locked up in that box like that." 

"Okay. Maybe you're right." Russell moved a step, to the side of the small table at which Chris was sitting, pretending to look more closely at the device they had removed from Wes's wrist to send to his father as proof that they had his son. It was no secret around Bio-Lab what it was, and what it could do. Unfortunately, it would only work for Wes. 

They were in a small shack they had found in the woods north of Silver Hills, a cabin someone had once used for hunting or as a home base for hiking or camping. It was falling apart, but sufficient for Chris to live in for a few days while he kept an eye on Wes's hiding place and took him food and water. They had brought in supplies: a small refrigerator stocked with food and beer, a box filled with packages of food small enough to drop down the pipe they had put in Wes's box, and bottled water they could pour down it. But what concerned him now was the small portable generator and its extra fuel. That would come in handy. And there were the shovels, a pickaxe, and a crowbar, at the back wall where they had left them after burying Wes. Handy... if he had the nerve to do it... 

"Look," Chris said, grinning in his usual stupid way. "Nice, huh?" He held up his hand, displaying a gold class ring on his finger. 

Russell had no trouble recognizing it; he'd seen it often enough over the last weeks as he had made friends with Wes. He had let Chris take it, along with Wes's wallet and cellphone. "Does it fit?" he asked, moving again, edging behind Chris's chair and nearer to the equipment leaning against the wall. 

"Yeah. Fits perfectly." 

"Makes sense. You're the same size as Wes." Another step. Chris wasn't even looking, just admiring his stolen property. 

"Yeah. Figured I might as well keep it." 

"Why not? It looks good on you." 

Chris picked up the morpher, fastening the strap around his own wrist and holding it up. "Wish I could keep this too." 

"Yeah..." Russell picked up the crowbar. It was long enough. Heavy enough. Chris was still looking at the morpher on his arm, his back turned. 

Before he could think about what he was doing, before he could think of all the things that could go wrong, Russell swung the crowbar as hard as he could. It hit solidly, right on the back of Chris's head, with a sickening sound between a thud and a crunch. Chris's body jerked spasmodically a few times. Then he slowly toppled out of the chair onto the floor. 

Easy... that was all he could think for the first few seconds. It had been so easy. Only a moment of time, just one moment, and he had turned a living person into a dead one. Committed murder. Now... now he had more to do, had to make sure no one ever found out. Fighting back his own revulsion, Russell pulled Chris onto his back. He raised the bar again. And brought it down. Again. Again. A frenzy of pounding, bone cracking, brains splattering, blood, blood... so much blood, it was getting all over. But he couldn't afford to let Chris be identified, it could lead the police straight to him, had to wipe out anything that could do it. Teeth, jaws, shattered to bits. Skull, a pulp of bloody flesh and bone. Disgusting, disgusting... 

Russell staggered back, exhausted and trembling. Only one more job to do... He stumbled to the generator, picked up a can of fuel, splashed it around, desperate to finish and get out of there, trying to go slowly enough not to get the stuff on himself. The second can, poured over Chris. Then he could leave... a moment at the door to find his matches, to strike one and throw it in. 

He waited only long enough to be sure the shack was going to burn. The light from the fire seemed to follow him, glowing against the darkening sky as he drove away as fast as he could. It was only later that it occurred to him that he had forgotten the morpher.

* * *

TBC... 


	3. Day Three: Suspicion

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Three - Suspicion

* * *

"Did you notice anything unusual day before yesterday, the day your son disappeared? Anything at all?" Lina glanced up at Alan Collins' face. 

"No, nothing unusual. I only saw Wes in the morning, at home." 

"Were you aware that Wes and Eric had an argument that afternoon?" 

"An argument? No, I didn't hear anything about it." That guarded look came back into his face. 

Lina checked her notes, although she could have quoted without them. "Two of your employees heard angry shouting coming from Wes's office. They saw Eric open the door and leave. He and Wes traded a couple of final insults, and Wes slammed the door." 

"I -- I'm surprised. They usually get along very well." 

"According to the witnesses, Wes called Eric a bastard. Eric called Wes a spoiled brat. Doesn't sound like they get along very well to me." 

"Everyone quarrels once in a while." 

"Eric didn't tell you about this?" 

"I -- no. No reason he should. It's their personal business." 

"Any bad blood between them? They must work together closely; maybe there's some friction, some rivalry...?" 

"None that I'm aware of, not anymore." 

"What do you mean, not anymore?" 

"Well..." Again he looked acutely uncomfortable. "Back when the mutants were here, when they were both active as Rangers, there were a couple of arguments. Nothing serious." 

Lina looked down at her notes again. "According to our interviews, everyone around here knows they used to fight almost every time they saw each other. There were arguments. There were also physical fights. A few people commented that they were surprised when you made them partners. They expected Eric to be furious at having Wes come in and take an equal position, simply because he's the boss's son." 

"That wasn't the only reason! Wes is a fine Guardian, and a fine commander!" 

"Does Eric see it that way?" 

"Are you accusing him of something?" Collins was angry now, glaring at her. It wasn't an unexpected reaction. 

"I'm doing my job," she said mildly. "These are all questions we need to ask, to get the background we need. No one's accusing anyone at this point. However, I don't need to tell you that this is very serious. Your son's been missing for almost two days now. If there's anything you're not telling us, anything at all, it might keep us from finding him." 

"I understand." Collins' voice was subdued, his eyes downcast, his flash of anger gone. 

"Now... you said you didn't worry when Wes didn't come home that night." 

"It's not unusual for him to be out very late." 

"How about in the morning? You must have realized he hadn't been home at all." 

"I..." Again that cautious look, but more strained, the look of a man struggling with himself. "Wes -- sometimes he stays out all night -- with friends. Or -- or at Bio-Lab." 

"Is it possible he went to Eric's that night? To settle their argument?" 

"It's possible." Collins' eyes turned to her, with an expression that seemed oddly -- vulnerable. Troubled, even painful. "If you suspect Eric -- I'm positive he had nothing to do with this. He and Wes have saved each other's lives more times than I even know about. They -- they care about each other very much. Eric would never hurt Wes." 

"I hope you're right." She hadn't really meant to say that, but it was what she felt, even if only for the sake of the man facing her. A man with enough troubles without the possibility she was suggesting. "Well..." She stood and smiled. "I'd better find Detective Duran." 

He got to his feet, walked her to the door of his office, then put out his hand and held hers in a firm, warm grasp. "I realize you have to ask these things," he said. "I'm only surprised you're not treating _me_ as a suspect, too." 

"We already spoke to your butler and chauffer, and confirmed that you were home all night." She grinned at his expression. "No one's above suspicion." 

Jimmy was waiting outside, and joined her as they headed for the building entrance. "Anything?" he asked. 

"Nothing new." She shook her head. "I have a feeling Collins senior thought he knew exactly where Wes was that night. But for some reason he doesn't want to tell us." 

"A girlfriend? Daddy doesn't want us to know his kid fools around?" Jimmy smiled. 

"A sleepover girlfriend doesn't seem like the kind of thing he'd want to hide." 

"Maybe she's married?" 

"Unlikely if Wes stayed at her place, but you never know. Or maybe something else is going on here. Meanwhile, we still come back to Eric. Wes went missing only hours after having a screaming argument with a man he's had serious conflicts with in the past, who may still resent him now. A man he told Holland he wanted to talk to that night. He could have gone over to Eric's house to straighten things out..." 

"They got into another fight..." 

"And one thing led to another. It's no secret Eric's got a nasty temper." 

"Damn. I hate this." Jimmy sighed. "What next?" 

"Maybe it's time to bring him in for questioning-" She was interrupted as her cellphone buzzed. The conversation was short, and left her with a frown as she hung up. "Come on," she said abruptly, starting again for the front doors. 

"Where are we going?" 

"North of the city. Wes's morpher has been found. And a body." 

* * *

Wes sat where he could look up through the pipe and see that little circle of light that meant sky, and sun, and the world that must still exist outside. Sometimes he thought he could even hear a sound, birds chirping, maybe the rustle of leaves as the wind blew through them. What he wouldn't give to feel that breeze on his face... 

The second day he had been here. He had tried again to get out, feeling all the surfaces for a weak spot, a loose board, anything. But the box was nailed shut; he could see the ends of some of the nails, where Russell and his friend had been clumsy. And he had no way of knowing how deep he was, whether he could dig his way to the surface even if he could get out of the box. 

The day before, after the light visible through the pipe had faded in what he assumed was evening, he had left the flashlight off, reluctantly, but he didn't know how long the batteries would last and the thought of not having it available terrified him. Eventually he had slept, wrapped in the thin blanket they had left for him. When he woke, the pale light of morning had returned. 

Today, he had eaten more of the beef jerky, not enough to satisfy his growing hunger, but he wanted to save it. But the saltiness made him thirsty. A few swallows of water were all he allowed himself. Couldn't afford to waste anything, not until he knew if anyone was coming to give him more. So far no one had. A full day gone by, part of another, and no one had come. Maybe they didn't intend to let him live, after all, maybe the food and water were just to prolong his suffering. 

Maybe... But why? Who could possibly hate him enough to do something like this? Enemies, yes, he had them, but they would surely be satisfied with a quick bullet in the head, not this. No, there must be some other purpose. They had taken his morpher. His cellphone, of course. And his class ring, and wallet. The morpher wouldn't do them any good. Did they want money? Was this a kidnapping? And how was Russell involved? 

How long before it got dark? Was he going to have to spend another night here, trapped, alone, afraid, wondering if he would ever see another human face again? How long? How long before someone -- anyone -- came? 

* * *

"Let me see, dammit!" 

"Okay. Jimmy, show it to him." 

Lina watched as Jimmy brought it out, safely inside a transparent plastic evidence bag, and held it up for Eric to see. An oval device, attached to a strap, almost like a large watch. It had survived the fire without apparent damage. She remembered noticing it before, when it had been on Wes Collins' wrist. Just like it had been on the wrist of the pitiful corpse inside that shack. 

A couple of hikers had seen the light of a fire last night, and decided to investigate this morning. What they had found had brought the police and Fire Department arson investigators. Word must have gotten to the Silver Guardians; she and Jimmy had been wrapping up their preliminary examination when Eric had arrived. 

"It's Wes's morpher," Eric said, his voice harsh. "Where's the body?" 

"Eric, I don't think you should-" 

He didn't answer, only pushed between them and headed inside the remains of the shack. The door was gone, but the rest of the structure was intact. Everything inside was burned to a crisp, black and crusted with ashes and soot, barely recognizable as a table, a chair, what had probably been food, supplies including shovels, a pickaxe, and a crowbar. And lying on the floor, a body that had once been human, now burned and battered beyond any hope of recognition. They followed, each taking an arm to hold Eric back as he stopped, staring. 

"No reason to think it's him." Eric sounded rational enough, but there was a quality under the surface of his voice that set Lina's nerves on edge. 

"Just the morpher." 

"Was he wearing it?" 

"Yes. It's the only thing we've removed from the body so far." She saw Jimmy glance at her, his face grim. 

"What happened to him?" 

Lina sighed. "Massive head trauma. We think that crowbar's the murder weapon. He was already dead when the fire started." 

Eric took a step closer, shrugging them off. "I won't disturb the damn crime scene," he muttered. He bent over the body, and then froze. Staring. 

"What is it?" Jimmy asked. 

The answer came after another few seconds of silence, as Eric turned a face drained of color to them. "Wes's ring..." he whispered. "He always wore it..." 

"Out!" Lina cried, as he swayed. They grabbed him again and hustled him outside. He didn't resist at first, but then shook them off again and turned away, stumbling a few steps to lean against a tree, chest heaving, bent over with head bowed, a soft sound of pain coming from him. 

A strong reaction, coming from someone who had seen considerably worse crime scenes than this. Of course, Wes had been his friend. Or so it had seemed. It certainly looked like genuine grief. Or was it just good acting? 

* * *

Christ. The place was crawling with cops. They had questioned him, the same questions over and over, those suspicious eyes staring at him. The same way Eric had stared, when he and Collins had asked the questions. Did they think he had something to do with it? Had they found something, did they know something? They had found Chris already, he had heard it on the radio. He had been counting on more time before that happened. Would they be searching the woods for Wes? 

Russell sat at his desk, face in his hands, able to give in to his own fears with the door safely shut. This wasn't the way it was supposed to have gone. Too dangerous to try for the ransom now; he had counted on Chris making the contact and picking up the money. Couldn't do it himself; what if something went wrong, what if someone saw him, or recognized his face, or his handwriting? They could get him for murder now. 

Plus, he had forgotten the damn morpher. Left it on Chris's body. So stupid. Now he had no proof that he even had Wes. Maybe he could go to the graveyard, lower a phone into the box, make Wes tell his father to pay up, make him deliver the ransom message himself... but no, the woods were full of cops now, thanks to that idiot Chris forcing him to kill him. Too much chance of being seen, and how would he stop Wes from saying anything he wanted to? And couldn't they trace cellphone calls now, locate them? Couldn't remember. And couldn't take the chance. 

No, no, it had all gone wrong. He had to give it up. No ransom. Forget the whole thing. But -- there was one loose end. Russell raised his head. Wes. If he could safely get into the woods, back to the graveyard, Wes had to be eliminated as soon as possible, just in case. No choice about that, too. 

* * *

Lina watched as Alan Collins stared at the objects in the evidence bags. He had nodded, once; after the morpher, the ring, a partially melted cellphone, and one still readable credit card from the wallet also found on the body had been laid out on the table in this small, dreary room at the stationhouse. He reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the plastic covering his son's ring. 

"Can I see him?" he asked, his voice faint but steady. 

"That's not a good idea." 

"How did he die?" 

Why did they always torture themselves, wanting to know these things? "He was killed by a blow to the head. Probably died instantly. Painlessly." 

"Are you sure it's him? I should look, maybe..." 

"He's not identifiable. We don't even have enough for dental records. I'm sorry, sir. All we have to go on are these personal items." 

"But you can't be sure." 

"I suppose not absolutely sure, no. But the body is Wes's size. Was wearing his morpher and ring. I'm told he never took them off. I'm very sorry, but the only logical conclusion is that it's him." 

There was silence for a few seconds. Then he spoke again, softly. "Do you have kids, Detective?" 

"No." She paused for a moment. "I lost a younger sister, years ago. But I can only imagine what you're going through." 

"Kathleen. My wife. She died when Wes was just a baby. I thought that was the worst thing that could ever possibly happen. But this is worse. My son. He wasn't even thirty yet. I remember..." He blinked, and raised a hand to rub his eyes, then looked at her. "I want a DNA test. I know, maybe I'm being irrational, I know it must be Wes, but..." 

"I understand completely. We'll need a sample. Wes's hairbrush or toothbrush. It'll take several days." 

"Thank you." 

She had just told him his son was dead, and he was thanking her. "I'm very sorry," she said again, as he climbed stiffly to his feet, moving to the door as slowly as if he had aged thirty years in the last few minutes. 

There were more questions she had to ask, more invasions of his privacy, and that of his son. But the right to privacy disappeared after death, gone, like the privilege of life itself. They would be talking to Alan Collins again. And to Eric, who had gone home, his face harshly controlled but his eyes as vacant and bleak as empty space. More questions. But not tonight. 

* * *

When Eric had gotten home that night, he had fully intended to do whatever it took to blot out the reality of what he had seen in that cabin. He rarely drank; it reminded him uncomfortably of what it had done to his parents. But tonight he was making an exception. Unfortunately it only seemed to make things worse, to make the emptiness he felt more vast and dreary. He looked down into the glass as he sat on the sofa in his small living room, finding nothing in its liquid depths. Whatever answer he was looking for, he wouldn't find it there. 

He got up, found his way into the kitchen, and held the glass over the sink, letting the contents pour out slowly. It drained away in a gleaming amber stream, leaving only an empty glass behind. He stared at the drain for a while, before gathering the energy to return to the living room. 

It had been on the news. A body found in the woods north of the city, and identified as Wesley Collins. Could that blackened, shriveled _thing_ he had seen ever have spoken, and laughed, and lived? Had that been all that was left of the man he remembered: the boy he had had a crush on in prep school, met again years later, fought against as a rival and fought alongside as a partner; the man he had secretly longed for, finally held in his arms, the person he loved? Could that smile, those bright eyes, the body he had touched, could all that be nothing more than ashes and memories now? No, it couldn't be real, he couldn't believe it. 

"Wes," he whispered. "Please, don't be dead..." 

* * *

"Eric..." Wes was startled by the sound of his own voice. He opened his eyes to darkness. A dream... it had seemed almost real, Eric's face, his voice calling, searching for him, seeming so close for a moment Wes almost tried to reach out and touch him. But there was only emptiness. He was alone, in the dark, hungry and thirsty, forgotten and abandoned; it had been two days now and no sign of anyone to give him more food and water, or to let him out. He was going to die down here, all alone... 

"Eric... Dad..." he whispered. "Oh, God, please... someone help me..."

* * *

TBC... 


	4. Day Four: Despair

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Four - Despair

* * *

"Let's go over it again." 

Eric stared up at them. Questions, more questions. He had realized almost immediately that they suspected him. He could even understand why. Somehow he didn't quite have the energy to care very much. Except that they kept after him; they wouldn't give up and let him leave this stark interrogation room and go home, when all he wanted to do was lock his doors and hide from a world that had become altogether too cold and empty to bear. 

Lina had done the questioning for the last half-hour, now Jimmy had taken over. The same Jimmy Duran who had seemed like such a nice guy the times they had met before; his easy smile now gone, his face hard, his voice sharp. 

"I've told you everything." 

"Not everything. You told us you were out that morning, and you went to Wes's office when you got back, after lunch. Why did you go to see him?" 

Eric shrugged. "Just wanted to check in with him. Talk to him." 

"Talk to him about what?" 

"Nothing in particular." 

"And when you got there?" 

"Russell Holland was there." 

"And?" 

"Wes invited me in. They finished their conversation." 

"The conversation about overseas investments. What then?" 

"Holland invited Wes out for drinks after work." A momentary shadow of the anger and resentment that had come over him resurfaced. Eric knew he had reacted, and saw Jimmy's eyes narrow. 

"And then?" 

"Then Holland left." And he had picked a fight with Wes. Such a stupid thing to get angry about... and now he would never have the chance to say he was sorry. Eric's mind retreated from that knowledge into dullness again. 

"That was when you and Wes argued." 

"Yes." He stared at the table, not looking up. 

"What did you fight about?" 

And that was what it always came back to. That was what they wanted to know, and what he couldn't tell. Not because he was ashamed of his own irrational jealousy, or even more of his lingering resentment of Wes's position as the boss's son, although he was. Not because knowing the true nature of their relationship would probably only make the detectives' suspicions stronger. Not even because he didn't want them to know he was gay, or wanted to protect his own privacy. None of those things seemed to matter anymore; nothing much did, with Wes gone. 

No, he simply couldn't betray Wes in this way, expose his memory to gossip and contempt, expose his father to the inevitable embarrassment. He hadn't been able to save Wes's life this time. Now this was the only thing he could do; keep their secrets, keep what they had felt for each other inside himself, safe from the world. 

"Nothing," he answered softly, folding his hands on the table. 

"Nothing?" Jimmy's voice was just as soft. "It didn't sound like nothing to the people who heard you." 

"It's not relevant to your investigation." 

"Why don't you let _us_ decide what's relevant?" 

"I didn't kill Wes. That's all you need to know." 

Jimmy was silent long enough to prompt Eric to look up at his face. "If you won't cooperate, we can't help you," he said. "All we want to know is what you two argued about. Then we can straighten all of this out." 

"No." 

"Eric -- you're not in a good position here. Please, don't do this to yourself." 

Startled by the almost pleading tone, Eric hesitated. But then he shook his head. 

"Okay. Have it your own way." Any trace of friendliness was gone. Jimmy leaned towards him. "Want to know what I think?" 

"Not particularly." 

"We know you and Wes used to fight when the mutants were here. You fought all the time, from what we hear. After all, Wes was Alan Collins' son. He walked away from Bio-Lab and from his father, back then. And you walked in. Got a morpher, just like him. Got the job he had turned down, as commander of the Guardians. But you were afraid he'd come back, weren't you? Take your morpher, and take your job." 

Eric shrugged. It was close enough to the truth. 

"And then that's exactly what happened, isn't it? Wes got your morpher." 

"I gave it to him. And he gave it back." 

"A little charity, sure. The important part is that he took your job." 

"He became my partner. Equals." 

"After you fought for that job, spent close to a year making the Guardians what they are now, Wes just walked in and became your co-commander. No training, no experience, no qualifications except being the boss's son." 

"He was a good commander. A good partner." 

"But you knew he didn't deserve it. He was just a spoiled brat, after all." 

"No!" 

"That's what you called him, isn't it? A spoiled brat who doesn't think about anything except himself?" 

"I didn't mean it!" But he had said it. Words shouted in anger, and now he could never take them back. 

"You hated him!" 

"No! I never hated Wes!" Eric found himself glaring into Jimmy's face, his heart pounding, the dim fog he had been living in since the moment he had seen Wes's ring on that burnt corpse suddenly swept away. "I -- I cared for him. Wes was one of the nicest people I've ever known, and he was _real_, there was nothing -- nothing fake or phony about him... He was my friend. My partner. I would never have hurt him, not on purpose." 

"Did you hurt him by accident? Is that what happened, you didn't mean it, but things just got out of hand...?" 

"No!" Eric took a deep breath and stood up. It was suddenly too much, the lights, the faces watching him, the grief and pain and guilt that had broken through and refused to go back into hiding. "For the last time, I didn't kill him. Are you going to arrest me?" 

Jimmy and Lina exchanged a look. "No," he said. "At least not yet." 

"Then I'm leaving." 

He didn't give them time to object, and they probably knew they couldn't stop him anyway. Eric opened the door and walked out, hardly noticing the squad room and the eyes that followed him with curiosity and suspicion, and not able to bring himself to really care. 

* * *

Three. He had learned it in the survival training he had taken as a Guardian. The Rule of Three. Three minutes without air. Three hours without shelter. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. And you're dead. 

Wes slowly closed the top on the water bottle. Not much point, but no reason not to. He raised his eyes to the end of the pipe again, seeing that little spot of blue sky, fresh air, life, so near and yet so unreachable. 

Three. Three days he had been down here now. He thought it was the third day. Hard to keep track, only that pale light reaching him through the pipe to divide day from night. The water had lasted until now only because he had stretched it out as long as possible. The beef was gone too, and he was very hungry, but the thirst was already worse. And it was only getting started. 

He could survive three days without water. He was already dehydrated, so it would be less, probably no more than two. He was already weakened, and would lose his remaining strength quickly. Become delirious. Lose consciousness. Fade away into death. All alone, down in this box, and it would become his coffin, after all. 

Fear, desperation, panic; they had all faded into hopelessness, into grief for his own death. Into an overwhelming sadness for everything he would never see again. His home, his room, Bio-Lab, his friends there. His father, who had tried so hard to be a good parent, not always successfully, but he had done the most important thing. He had shown his love, always, even in the times they hadn't been getting along. Whatever the problems, Wes had always known he could depend on that. 

And Eric... Wes sighed, hugging his knees and squeezing his eyes shut against sudden tears. Couldn't afford to cry, couldn't waste the moisture. But he would never see Eric again, never touch him, never hear his voice. A wave of loneliness and loss... and concern. What would happen to Eric? There was another rule... three months without love before you start to lose hope. Would Eric turn back into the hard, cold, angry person he had been two years ago? Would he get worse? He was the most alone person Wes had ever known; what would this do to him? 

No, Eric would survive. He'd been through worse than this. So would Wes's father. Their lives would go on without him. It seemed incredible that the world could continue, when Wes Collins would end. But it was true. It would all end, for him... "Dammit," Wes muttered softly. "I'm not done yet. I have things to do. I want my life!" He raised his head. "Let me out of here!" he shouted, anger drowning everything else out. "Let me _out_, dammit!" 

The next minutes became a blur of his fists pounding on the ceiling, punching, not caring about the pain. When his knuckles began to bleed Wes rolled onto his back, raised his legs and kicked upwards as hard as he could, shouting, over and over, until the surge of rage faded as quickly as it had started, and he curled up, letting the tears come until he sank gratefully into sleep. 

* * *

"_Wes. We need to talk. Call me._" 

A few seconds of silence. A click. 

"_Wes... Look, I screwed up. Just call me, okay?_" 

"_Don't you check your messages? I'm home, waiting. Call me._" 

Jimmy reached to press the 'off' button on the recorder, and then pulled a small answering machine a little closer. "And then this one, on Wes's home machine, at just after eleven." 

"_Wes, I know I was wrong. I guess you're still mad, but please call me tonight. I'm -- I'm sorry._" 

"Sorry... but for what?" Lina wondered aloud. "Why won't Eric tell us what they were fighting about?" 

"There were a couple more calls from Eric's phone. Guardian headquarters. Silver Hills Hospital." 

"Worried because Wes didn't call back?" 

"Or faking it, covering his tracks. What if Wes went to Eric's house that night? He could have already been dead by that time." 

"But... how did he wind up in that cabin in the woods? Impossible for the coroner to determine an exact time of death with such a badly burned body, but according to the hikers who found it the fire happened the next evening." 

Jimmy shrugged. "Eric killed Wes in his house. Left the body there while he went to work the next day. Took it up into the woods that evening, set the fire to destroy any evidence. He's familiar with that area; he worked on the Warren case." 

Eric and the Guardians had gotten involved when an old country home in that part of the woods had been robbed and vandalized a year before. Lina frowned at the reminder that Eric was almost one of their own, just as much as Wes had been. "But the way he reacted to seeing the body. Pretty hard to fake something like that." 

"Guilt, maybe. Reaction to being confronted with what he'd done. Genuine grief. We've seen stranger things." 

"I don't know. He didn't seem to be expecting to see Wes like that." Lina glanced up at Jimmy's face, seeing him smile faintly at her. She knew he didn't like this any more than she did, and that he wasn't any more convinced of Eric's guilt than she was of his innocence. This was simply the way they worked together, testing out theories, arguing opposite sides. "We'll need more than a theory to get a search warrant for Eric's house," she went on. "I'm not sure there's much point, anyway. He's had plenty of time to destroy any evidence." 

"We've interviewed his co-workers. How about his neighbors? Maybe someone saw Wes that night, or noticed his car." 

"Sounds like a plan." She sighed and stood up, watching as Jimmy collected the recorders. "Those messages," she said thoughtfully, half to herself. "A call every hour. Why so many? Why was he so anxious about that fight?" 

"Maybe he was afraid to have the boss's son mad at him." 

"I don't think that's it. He sounded more like..." 

"What?" 

"Nothing." No point in repeating the suspicion that had just popped into her head, not without anything to back it up. But it gave her another reason to wonder exactly what Eric's neighbors would have to say. 

* * *

Russell paced restlessly, up and down the living room, the room that was too big, in the house that was too fancy, in the neighborhood that was too expensive. Money. That was what had gotten him into this mess. Between the gambling and the house and the car and the clothes and the vacations... Somehow he never seemed to be able to live on what he earned. He always needed just a little more. 

The plan had been supposed to take care of that, for the rest of his life. Five million, his half of the ransom. He never would have had to worry about money again. He had worked it all out, the plan: it had started off perfectly, with Chris knocking Wes out in the bar parking lot, shoving him in his own car and bringing him to the old graveyard. They were supposed to have him safely hidden, buried inside the box, before he woke up. Then they would have demanded the money, told the cops or the Guardians where to find Wes as soon as they got it, and by now they would both be multi-millionaires. But the old grave had taken too long to dig up, and that idiot Chris hadn't given Wes enough of the drug. After Wes had seen them, none of the rest would have worked. Chris deserved what he had gotten. 

And now... they had found the body already. They had identified it as Wes. Maybe that was a lucky break. They'd never know it was really Chris, they'd never find the connection, never know Russell had anything to do with it. They'd think someone had murdered Wes for personal reasons. From the rumors he'd heard, they were asking a lot of questions about Eric Myers. Maybe they'd pin it on him. No one would suspect Russell Holland; what possible motive could he have, after all? 

He'd hidden Chris's things, his suitcase, the identification Russell had insisted he leave behind. Too dangerous to throw it away just yet; someone might find it, but no one would look under the floorboards in his closet. His plan was there too, all written down in a small notebook -- so detailed, so perfect. So useless now, but he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. He had taken care of Chris's car tonight, left it parked on a back street, no license plates or registration, where no one would notice for a while. He'd done what he could. He'd be safe. As long as no one found Wes... 

But... just in case someone poked around the graveyard and found a patch of disturbed ground... Just in case they found the box, he had to make sure Wes couldn't tell them anything. Only that one detail left. He glanced down at the heavy duty plastic trash bag clutched in his fingers. All he had to do was tape it over the end of the pipe. Wes would run out of air in a couple of hours. It would be a kindness, really. It would take him days to die of thirst. Yes, this way was best, and the sooner it was done, the better. Gathering his resolve, he headed for the door. 

But down on the street, the first thing he saw was a cop car. No reason to think they were watching him -- but it was frightening. Maybe it was too soon, maybe they were still out there at the crime scene. Russell stood on the sidewalk, uncertain, trying to think, the bag clammy and cold in his hands. The patrol car turned the corner. But now it was starting to rain. It was dark. He remembered those woods; Chris had been the one who knew the way to the old gravesite, he'd never find it in the dark. 

Even as he hesitated, a flash of lightning flared overhead, followed by a crack of thunder. Wandering around an old graveyard in the dark, in a storm, maybe getting lost... Forget it. Russell turned to go back inside. There was always tomorrow... 

* * *

It was after midnight when it pulled Eric out of a restless and unsuccessful attempt to sleep: the rumble of thunder, and then the soft sound of rain on the roof of his house, accompanied by a chilly breath of breeze. With an inner sigh he threw back the bedcovers and got up, crossing to the window. Cool air and a few drops gusted against his bare skin as he raised his hands to pull it shut. He stopped, hesitated, and then pushed the frame up and leaned on the windowsill, letting the rain blow over him. 

It had been raining on that day six months ago when Wes had come here to the house. That had been when Wes admitted the truth, that he was gay, to himself and to Eric. That had been when Wes first said he loved him, and it had been the beginning of the only genuinely happy time Eric could remember in his life. It had still been raining that day when they had made love -- technically not the first time, but close enough. The sound of rain still brought those moments back, with all their fulfillment. 

Eric left the window open and returned to his bed, lying down and pulling the covers up against the air still blowing in, and the deeper chill inside him. He closed his eyes. Wes had been his first love, and probably his only love. No one else could possibly make him feel that way, and probably no one else would ever feel like that about him. No, it was over, everything was over, gone and over... Without Wes what was left? 

Without Wes... His eyes snapped open. What would Wes say if he were here now? If he could see this? _Giving up? Feeling sorry for yourself? That's not the Eric Myers I know..._ This was the last thing Wes would have wanted, he knew with sudden clarity. Wes would have wanted him to go on living. To fight, to clear his name of any suspicion. Not to be lying around grieving, but to do the only thing left that he could do for his friend, partner, and lover. 

Wes might be gone, but whoever had killed him was still out there, somewhere, still walking around free. That thought pulled Eric up out of bed again, to return to the window. The wind had died down, leaving the steady patter of a heavy rain. He stared out into the night, leaning over the sill, letting the water strike his face, cool and pure, washing away the dullness and apathy. 

"I promise, Wes," he said softly into the darkness. "I promise I'll find out who did this. And when I do... I'll make them pay." 

* * *

"_Wes..._" The voice seemed to echo hollowly inside the box. 

"Eric..." Wes mumbled. He twitched, caught in the vagueness between sleep and waking, struggling towards the surface of consciousness. 

It came again, soft in his ear. "_Wes._" 

"I'm dying... Help me..." 

The voice came again, harsh now, bringing Eric's image to him so sharply he felt a renewed pang of longing and loss. "_Look at you, just lying there, waiting to die. Move your lazy rich butt and save yourself!_" 

"I can't..." 

"_Don't give up. Don't ever give up as long as you're still alive. You can do it..._" 

Wes's eyes opened. He was alone, in the box, but he could almost feel Eric's presence; as if insubstantial fingers had stroked his cheek, lips had brushed lightly over his. "Eric?" he murmured, but there was nothing there. 

No, not nothing. He felt a tiny, soft impact on the blanket he was rolled up in. And became aware of dampness. Wetness. He reached to feel, and felt a drop hit his hand. Water. In seconds the flashlight was on, still bright, thank God, showing him water dripping from the pipe. The air smelled fresh when he put his face to the end, rain-fresh... it was raining! 

For a time he just sat, letting the rainwater drip into his mouth, listening to the sound of distant thunder from outside. Must be raining hard, it increased into a slow trickle, enough to blunt his thirst after fifteen or twenty minutes. Wes uncapped the water bottle and carefully set it where it would catch the flow. He watched for another minute before turning out the light and sitting back against the side of the box, listening to the beautiful sounds of water splashing. 

The rain was slowing. But the clock had been reset. Three days. More, with the water in the bottle. Time to keep trying, time to find a way to escape this trap. Eric had said he could do it... If he were here, Eric would never give up. He would keep fighting to his last breath. Maybe it had only been a dream, but somehow Wes found hope in it. It was past time to stop sitting here, waiting for someone else to save him. Somehow, someway, he was getting out.

* * *

TBC... 


	5. Day Five: Action

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Five - Action

* * *

There didn't seem to be anyone home, at first. Lina and Jimmy had turned away from the door of the house next to Eric's when a blonde girl, maybe ten or eleven years old, came running in from the street. She stopped abruptly when she saw them, blinking at them in the early morning sunlight. 

"Hi!" Lina called. "Do you live here?" 

"Yes. My mom's out back in the yard." She stared at the badges they were holding up. "Are you policemen?" 

"I'm a police_woman_." Lina smiled, and went on to Jimmy, "Why don't you find Mom. I'll be there in a minute." 

"Okay." 

Turning her attention back to the little girl, Lina smiled again and took a few steps closer. "I'm Detective Munroe." 

"You're a detective? Wow, that must be cool!" 

"It's a living. What's your name?" 

"Alice. Where's your gun?" 

Lina patted her holster. "Here. But don't worry, I'm not going to shoot anyone, just ask a few questions." 

Alice tilted her head. "What kind of questions?" 

"Do you know the man who lives next door?" Lina pointed. 

"That's Eric. Sure, I feed his birds sometimes when he's busy. I know him real well." 

"That's great. Do you like his birds?" 

"Oh yes. They're so cute." 

"Alice, have you ever seen this man?" Lina held out her photo of Wes. 

She only needed a quick glance before nodding. "That's Wes. I met him." 

"He came to see Eric?" 

"Sure. Lots of times." 

"Lots of times. When?" 

"I don't know. Lots. Sometimes he goes in Eric's house. Or they go in together." Alice shrugged. "A couple of times I saw him come out in the morning." 

"In the morning?" Lina asked. 

"Yes." The little girl looked up into Lina's face. "I saw Wes's picture on the TV. Did something bad happen to him?" 

"Yes, honey, something bad happened. That's why we're here." 

"Poor Eric. He likes Wes a lot." 

"How do you know?" 

"He hardly ever used to smile. But he did it a lot more when Wes was around," Alice said. "Come on, don't you want to ask my mom some questions?" 

* * *

His fit of pounding and kicking the roof of the box had left Wes with raw, painful knuckles, but it had done more that that. He examined the wooden planks above him closely with the flashlight. They ran crossways across the width of the box, with the hole for the pipe cut out of two planks, leaving them weakened, almost cut through. Now the strip of wood holding one of them together around the pipe was broken. That board was a little loose, moving slightly when he pushed at it. 

The plank on the other side of the pipe was cracked -- wouldn't take much to break it too. But what could he use to hit it with? Just try the same thing again, he decided. Wes rolled onto his back, raised a leg, and kicked up, hitting the wood next to the pipe. With an audible crack, it began to give. Another couple of kicks and it snapped, bringing down a light shower of damp soil. 

Wes sat up and inspected the roof again, thinking. Everything depended on how deep he was. If there was a full six feet of earth above the top of the box, it might collapse and pour in when he broke a hole open, burying and suffocating him before he could dig out. But if the bottom of the box was six feet under, the top should be only about three feet deep. Then he'd have a good chance. The soil above him seemed loose; did that mean it wasn't very deep? What about the pipe? It didn't look all that long -- maybe. 

He smiled, a little. It hardly mattered, anyway. Doing nothing meant he'd die for sure. Three minutes without air. Better to have a quick death, struggling to get out and live, than to spend three days lying here dying of thirst. He reached up to grab the broken end of one of the planks, and started pulling. 

* * *

"Detective? Hope I'm not interrupting." 

Lina looked up, her mind still occupied with the notes she had been reviewing, and then climbed quickly to her feet. "Mr. Collins. Not at all." She tried a smile, and then decided it might not be appropriate. "What brings you here?" she asked. 

"I'd like to have a word with you, if I may." 

"Of course." 

She led the way into one of the small interrogation rooms, the same one where she and Jimmy had questioned Eric, and turned to wave him into a chair. "Sorry about this," she said, nodding at the cold, tiled walls. "Not very comfortable, but it's private. And I got the feeling you didn't want to talk in the squad room." 

"Right." Collins took a seat and faced her, leaning an elbow on the table next to them. "I wanted to know what progress you're making." 

"The investigation is coming along. Sorry, but I can't discuss details at this time." 

And he said what she had somehow known he had come to say. "You suspect Eric Myers, don't you?" 

"At this point, everyone's a suspect." 

"So you said before. And as I said before, I'm sure he had nothing to do with it." 

"Mr. Collins. Sir." She hesitated, reluctant to bring more pain into those tired blue eyes. But, unpleasant or not, the question had to be asked. "Were you aware that your son was spending a great deal of time with Eric?" 

"Yes. They worked together closely." That same guarded look was back in his face. 

"Not just at Bio-Lab. Wes was seen at Eric's house." 

"They were personal friends, too." 

"Sir... We have reason to believe Wes spent the night there at least a few times." 

"Sometimes -- he was there late. It was easier for him to stay than to drive home." 

Sometimes you just had to throw it at them. Lina watched him closely as she asked, "Did Wes and Eric have a romantic relationship? Is that where you thought Wes was the night he disappeared?" 

No anger. No surprise. Just a look of resignation. Collins sighed. "My son's private life was... private. It's got nothing to do with this." 

"Normally, I'd agree completely. But if it's what got him killed, it has everything to do with it." 

He blinked, a look of pain crossing his face and making her wish she had found some better way of putting it. But all he said was, "I just can't believe Eric could have done this. He has a temper, that's true. But he's not a killer, and Wes was the last person he would have harmed." 

Lina didn't smile, didn't react outwardly, didn't tell him how many murderers she had brought to justice who had -- at least outwardly -- loved their victims. Husbands and wives -- parents and children. Lovers. She only nodded. "I hope you're right, sir. I really do. But we have to consider all possibilities." 

"I understand. And I want my son's killer found. Whatever it takes, and whoever it is." 

She walked him to the stationhouse door. They stopped there, at the top of the steps, Collins facing her again. "The funeral's day after tomorrow," he said. "Will you and Detective Duran be there?" 

"Of course." 

"Part of the investigation, I suppose." 

"Not just that. We both knew Wes, and liked him. He'll be missed by everyone in the Department." 

He swallowed, avoiding her eyes for a moment, but then held out his hand and took hers firmly. "Thank you," he said. 

"I haven't done anything." 

"Yes, you have." And with that rather cryptic remark, he turned and started down the steps. 

* * *

Had to take the chance... Russell parked in the same place he had used before, in the woods, off the road winding past the Warren summer house. The family was away; only the housekeeper was there now, and she hardly ever went out. No one to see him as he slipped through the trees on his way to the graveyard, a thick plastic bag and a roll of tape clutched in his gloved hands. 

All he'd need was a couple of minutes. Just a couple. Tape the bag over the end of the pipe. Wes would never even know what had happened, he'd just quietly suffocate. Not much farther... but all these trees looked so damned alike; Chris had been the one who knew how to find it. Anger again, at Chris, for screwing everything up, for not being here, for being the reason he had to take this risk. 

Finally, he came to the edge of the woods, to a place he recognized. The slope below him here ran down toward the cabin. They had come this way, that first night; now he would be able to find it, just follow the faint trail he could see leading up. He smiled, and started to climb. This whole business would be over soon... just a few minutes... 

The cabin, where he had killed Chris. He didn't really want to see it again, to see what little the fire he had started had left, to be reminded of what he had done. But inevitably he stopped and looked back. And saw movement on the hillside. 

* * *

Wes yanked again, harder. The board pulled free with a splintering sound, the sudden lack of resistance sending him thudding against the side of the box. Loose soil began to rain down through the hole left in the roof. 

He pushed back, wriggling out of the way, heart pounding, but the small shower of damp earth stopped after a couple of seconds. When Wes turned on the light and looked, he saw a surface of dirt above him through the opening he had made. 

Experimentally, he reached up and touched it, lightly at first, but then digging his fingers in. A few more clumps fell, but that was all. The danger of a larger collapse would get greater the bigger he made the hole in the top of the box, but so far it was holding. There was no choice, anyway. If thirst didn't get him, hunger would. 

The thought only reminded him of how empty his stomach was, how weak and shaky he felt, how much he would give for a pizza or a burger. Even a piece of bread and a glass of milk would seem like a feast... Wes shook his head, put hunger firmly out of his mind, and reached for the second board. 

* * *

There they were. Eric knew he was under surveillance now, being watched by the police. They didn't even bother to hide it; a squad car had been parked in front of his house last night, and had tailed him to work and back home today. He had spotted another car following him here. Just another sign of the noose that was slowly tightening around his neck. Eric believed in the system, but he also had heard the horror stories, the cases of innocent people convicted for something they hadn't done. And now, Jimmy Duran and Lina Munroe were after him, trudging up the hill he had climbed a few minutes before. Eric watched them for a few moments before turning away. 

He had already been to the burned-out cabin, still circled with crime scene tape although the CSI's had gotten everything out of it that they were likely to find. He had gone in anyway, stood there in that small room, still with the bitter smell of fire and ashes, trying not to wonder if he was also smelling the stench of burnt human flesh. There was no room for the flood of horror and grief that threatened to break through, no time for it. Wes was depending on him to find whatever answers might be here. 

But there were none that he could see. From the position the body had been in, Wes must have been sitting in that chair, at the table. Someone had stood behind him, raised the crowbar. Brought it down. And then used it again, and again, destroying Wes's face. But why? That kind of brutality was usually the sign of a personal motive, the desire to not only kill, but to destroy completely, out of hatred... or anger. Who could have felt that way about Wes? 

He had spent only another moment there, glancing around. Noticing the generator. Someone had been planning to spend some time there. The shovels, crowbar, and pickaxe were gone, taken for evidence, but he remembered them leaning against the wall, and wondered why they were there. Could have been there for years, left by some previous visitor. If the killer had brought them, what were they for? Had he planned to bury Wes, and then changed his mind and burned his body instead? 

More questions, when he needed answers. Outside, Eric had taken a deep breath of fresh air and looked around. Why up here, out in the woods? Because it was secluded? Or was there something else? Not even sure of what he was looking for, mostly for the sake of keeping in motion, he had started uphill, wandering aimlessly, hoping he'd find something, anything, before the daylight faded. 

It caught his eye as he glanced back at the two detectives again. Something out of place on this grassy, rocky hillside. A gleam of near-black, something that wasn't grass, rock, or dirt, almost hidden in a cluster of small boulders overgrown with bushes, maybe thirty feet away and slightly downslope from him. If he hadn't been standing in exactly the right spot, he would never have seen it. He headed for it. 

It was wooden, polished surfaces now aged and scratched. Six feet long, curved sides and top, made of thick wood -- with a sudden rush of irrational fear, he recognized it. A coffin. Dirty, scuffed, the side splintered where it lay against the rock, but a coffin. He froze for a few heartbeats and then scrambled forward again. 

Eric fumbled with the lid. It was fastened down -- but the wood was old, rotting, and broken in places. He yanked it up and stared inside, breathing hard, then closing his eyes. 

"Jesus. What the hell is this?" Jimmy's voice came from over his shoulder. 

Eric twisted to look up. "What does it look like?" 

"Like an old coffin, complete with old corpse." 

"Yeah." Eric closed the lid, relieved to hide the shriveled object inside, unsure of what he had been afraid of finding. 

"Man, I'm getting too old for this," Lina puffed as she joined them, staring. "What's a coffin doing here?" 

Eric peered up the hill. "Must be from the Warren place. They had a family graveyard up there." 

"You think someone dug this up and dumped it here?" 

"Kids are always doing shit like that." 

"I guess." She looked up at Jimmy. "We'll have to report it. Get someone to find the gravesite and rebury it." 

"Right." 

Eric straightened and started away. The morbid discovery had disturbed him, and he was anxious to get away from it and return to his search. Not that he knew what he was looking for. 

Lina's voice came from behind him. "Eric? Why are you here?" 

"Since you seem to be determined to waste your time investigating _me_, I thought I'd try to find the real killer." 

"Okay." Lina gave him a considering look. "Any luck so far?" 

"No," he admitted. "Did you have these woods searched?" 

"The immediate area of the cabin, yes." 

"But no more?" 

"We don't have unlimited manpower. And we have no reason to believe there's anything out here. Do you?" 

"Well, no. But -- whoever killed Wes must have grabbed him in the city, probably right outside the bar where he had drinks with Holland, or pretty close. There must be a reason why they brought him up here." 

"Any ideas?" Jimmy asked. "What are you looking for?" 

"For one thing, you never found Wes's car, did you?" 

"No. But the killer could have ditched it anywhere, probably back in the city." 

"I've got the Guardians looking for it. My theory is it's around here somewhere." 

"Possible. What else?" 

Eric stopped and looked around, seeing only woods, rocky ground, a gentle slope up to where the Warren family kept their summer home and down to the road and where the burned-out cabin stood. He looked up again, squinting as he thought he saw movement in the trees, then decided it must have been an animal. "I don't know," he admitted. "Not much up here besides the Warren place." 

"Where you once worked a case." 

"Yeah, I worked up here. Yeah, I know the area. I knew about that cabin, just like I know the house, the barn, the old graveyard. Just like a lot of the people in Silver Hills do! Not to mention anyone with half a brain could look up anything they want to know, or drive up here and check it out themselves!" 

"All right, we get the point," Lina said mildly. "Do you really expect to find something we missed?" 

"I hope so," he said. "I have an advantage, after all." 

"What's that?" 

"I know I didn't kill Wes." 

He saw her lips curve in a smile, and started walking again. They moved on, up the slope towards the old house. Jimmy wandered a few yards away, apparently scouting the ground, but Lina stayed at Eric's side. It was a few minutes before she spoke again. "Why do you think someone would have wanted to kill him?" she asked. 

"He's a Silver Guardian. You make enemies in that job." 

"The kind of enemy who would have killed him like that? Not just bashed his head in, but the way he was beaten -- multiple blows to the face, over and over, as if they wanted to erase every trace of him, until there was nothing left-" 

"Stop it!" Eric grated through clenched teeth, his stomach lurching. 

"I'm sorry. But the point is, this looks like something personal. You and Wes were very close, weren't you?" 

"Yeah." 

"Friends. Partners." 

"Yeah." 

"And more than friends." 

He stopped, staring as she turned to face him. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" 

"Come on, Eric. You know exactly what it means. Wes was seen at your house multiple times. He stayed overnight. The messages you left in his voicemail and on his answering machine didn't come from a friend upset over a fight, they were from a lover who wanted to make up. You were in love with Wes." 

She paused, and took a step closer when he didn't answer. "You argued -- Russell Holland had just left Wes's office. He had invited Wes to have a few drinks with him. Was that it, was that what the fight was about? Was something going on between them?" 

"No! There was nothing 'going on!'" 

"But Wes came to your house that night, didn't he? You had another fight. I know how thin the line between love and hate can be. How easy it is to get carried away by anger or jealousy. You didn't mean for it to happen, did you? You didn't mean to kill him." 

He stood stiffly, trying to hold back the rage, and the fear that lurked under it. His fists clenched tight, he glared at her murderously, taking a step... 

Lina didn't back off. "Nasty temper you've got there," she murmured. "You look almost mad enough to kill." But her eyes flickered in Jimmy's direction, and her hand moved closer to her gun. 

"Fuck you, lady!" Eric snarled, and turned, walking blindly away. 

"Eric! You can't run away from it!" 

He stopped again, taking a deep breath. She was right; he couldn't just walk away. The anger was abruptly gone, leaving only a cold thread of fear. He could go to jail. Even if it didn't go that far, what if people believed it? What if Wes's father suspected him? He could lose everything he had left, including the friendship of a man he had come to look on as a father. 

"Yesterday you thought I killed him because I hated him," he said finally, turning back to her. "Today I killed him because I loved him. If you're interested in the truth, here it is. Wes and I were very close. How close is none of your business. Yes, we had a fight that afternoon. What it was about is also not your business. I called him that night, several times. Left messages. He never called back. I was worried; I called the Guardians and the hospital. Nothing. He never came to my house. I assumed he was at home. Mr. Collins assumed he was with me. Someone murdered him. I don't know who, but I intend to find out. And if they're lucky, you'll get to them before I do." 

He shot another glare at her, and at Jimmy, who had returned, watching them cautiously. Then he turned his back and started down the hill. 

* * *

Russell's hands clutched the wheel of his car as he sped back into town, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. They were up there. Cops. Must be cops, on the slope leading up to the graveyard. Did they know something? Had they seen him? Had they figured it out? If they found Wes... if they found the coffin and realized what it meant... 

But wait. He hadn't seen uniforms, just three people in regular clothes, wandering around. Maybe they were townspeople, just curious. Sure, there must be lots of people going up there now, wanting to see the cabin where they thought Wes Collins had died. His jaw tightened. They hadn't even been heading in his direction. He should have kept going, instead of panicking and running. 

But... he couldn't take the chance of wandering around those woods again, not with people around. No safe way to take care of Wes. Not now, anyway. But the problem would solve itself. Wes must be dying by now. It wouldn't take much longer. Maybe he didn't need to do anything. Time was on his side. All he had to do was wait... no choice anyway... maybe everything would be all right after all... 

* * *

The second board had been stubborn, it had taken him a long time to work it loose. To his relief, the collapse he feared still hadn't happened, but a small hill of dirt had rained in as a result of his efforts. Wes sat back, turned on the flashlight, and inspected his work again. He had used the end of the flashlight to pound out a couple of nails that had been coming out of the wood. Luckily it didn't seem to be damaged. But the battery was giving out; it was starting to get dim. 

He had gotten the two broken boards out of the way. But now what? The gap they left wasn't big enough for him to get through; he would need to break another board for that. And he thought he knew how. 

The pipe. That was the only possibility. Pull the pipe down, use it as a lever. If it was short enough so that he'd have room inside the box to move it. If he had enough strength left after days of starvation. If the ground above didn't collapse on him. If he could break a big enough hole and manage to dig his way out. A lot of ifs. But no choice at all. 

And it would have to wait for tomorrow. The flashlight was beginning to fade, and the light from outside was gone. It was evening, and he wanted to wait for daylight. Struggling with the two broken boards had tired him out, anyway, he needed to rest. Got tired so fast now. And he was so hungry. So very hungry...

* * *

TBC... 


	6. Day Six: Reaction

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Reviews are always appreciated. 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Six - Reaction

* * *

It was raining again. Wes woke to the sensation of cold and wet, a slow drip of water coming from the pipe and hitting his leg. Enough had already come down to turn a patch of the dirt on the box floor to a thin coat of mud. The light coming from the world above was thin and weak, but after putting his eye to the pipe Wes decided it was because of the clouds. The water was welcome; the bottle was almost empty again. He sat quietly and let it drip into his mouth until he had had enough, but decided against taking the time to collect more in the bottle. 

One way or another, this was going to be his last day in the box. His hands trembling only slightly -- because of hunger, he told himself -- he reached up and grabbed the end of the pipe, trying to get a good grip on the four or five inches it protruded from the soil above the box. A pull resulted in nothing. A moment of near-panic passed as he wondered if it was fastened to something, or just held tight by the pressure of the soil around it. 

Wes took a breath to steady himself, wiped his hands dry on his clothes, and tried again, pulling at an angle, working it back and forth, twisting it, feeling it start to give a little. Then he pulled down again. This time it moved, sliding farther into the box, very slowly. He tired quickly and had to stop after what felt like a long time, leaning against the side wall, watching the water still dripping out -- but now it was dirty, muddy. The pipe's upper end must be below ground. 

Again. More pulling, and it came faster now. Maybe the rain was helping. Just as he needed to take another rest, the pipe bumped against the floor of the box. Wes stopped and waited for his dwindling strength to return. Everything depended on the next step. If he could pull the lower end of the pipe sideways, it would act as a lever, putting pressure on the planks and, hopefully, breaking one. The upper end was still above the roof, and how long it was he had no way of knowing. If it was very long, if he was very deep, he wouldn't have a chance. 

Wes switched on the flashlight. It should last a couple more hours, and now there was only a faint circle of light on the floor where the end of the pipe rested. He uncapped the water bottle and finished what little was left in it. Then, with a deep breath, he got a firm grip on the pipe, and pulled it toward the end of the box, putting his back into it, bracing his feet against the other end. It moved, fairly easily at first, must not be much of the pipe still sticking up into the soil. Encouraged, Wes pulled harder as the boards began to creak. 

* * *

The gray, overcast sky was dreary and depressing. So was the squad room today, a rundown place crowded with too many desks and noisy with too many voices. Lina crossed to her desk, glanced out the window, and sighed. It fit her mood. No progress in the Wes Collins case. Just suspicions, and her confrontation with Eric had left her with the uncomfortable conviction that they were on the wrong track, pursuing an innocent man. 

But if Eric hadn't done it in a fit of rage or jealousy -- who had killed Wes? Why? What were they looking at here? A crime of personal revenge, as implied by the savagery with which the body had been treated? Or something else? Alan Collins was a very rich man. There had been no ransom demand, but that didn't mean it couldn't have been a kidnapping gone wrong. 

"Lina!" 

Jimmy's voice. He had been in and out all morning, going over his notes, pestering the lab people for progress on evidence analysis. Now she saw him coming her way across the room, his face alight with excitement. She sat up. It took a lot to shake Jimmy up, and he looked thoroughly shaken. 

"What is it?" 

"You're not going to believe this." 

* * *

"Eric, why don't you sit down? You're making me nervous." 

The voice startled him. Eric looked up from the carpeted floor of the Collins' large, expensively furnished living room, where he had been pacing for the last several minutes. Alan Collins was standing in the doorway, watching him, a slight smile not hiding the marks of fatigue and grief. After a quick glance, Eric looked away again and obediently sank onto the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. "Sorry, sir," he said. 

"My name's Alan, you know, at least when we're not at Bio-Lab." 

"Yes, sir." Again he became aware of Collins watching him, waiting, and hastily added, "I mean Alan." 

Collins settled into the armchair facing him. "I wanted to discuss tomorrow. The funeral." 

"I understand." Eric looked down again, swallowing. "I guess you don't want me to go." 

"What?" The word sounded genuinely surprised. 

"A lot of people think I did it. I understand if you don't want me there. And the cops found out about Wes and me. I could understand if you don't want me to come because of that, too." 

"Are you ashamed of your relationship with Wes?" 

"No, but..." 

"Did you kill him?" 

"What?" Eric looked up again, surprised into an angry reaction. "Of course not!" 

"Then don't insult me by thinking I'm going to keep you away from Wes's funeral. You -- you loved him, and I know he loved you. It's only right that you should be there; in fact I want you to speak. Just a few words, nothing fancy." 

"Really?" Eric blinked at him, feeling his throat tighten. Collins seemed to understand, he only smiled again. "Thank you." He swallowed. It didn't seem like enough. "I guess I never said how sorry I am about Wes," he went on awkwardly. 

"Thanks." Collins looked down, then glanced around, eyes losing focus, perhaps remembering better times: all the hours Wes must have spent in this room, in this house. "I know you miss him, too..." 

Eric had his own memories. Wes sitting in that armchair smiling at him; Wes looking up as he walked in; Wes standing at the windows, looking out over the garden. And of course the memories that haunted his own house were even more painful, more intimate and intense. Perhaps someday the pain would fade, and he would value those images; he would remember the good times and not the way they had ended. But not yet. 

The doorbell interrupted their thoughts. Both Eric and Collins were silent as they listened to the faint sounds of Philips, the Collins' butler, answering the door. Then footsteps approached, and Lina Munroe and Jimmy Duran appeared in the doorway. Eric frowned and watched their faces for some clue to their purpose as they paused, exchanging a glance. They seemed excited about something, nervous. Here to arrest him? But no, no handcuffs appeared, and instinct told him that wasn't it. 

"Detectives?" Collins said, as they both stood. "Has something happened?" 

"Well, yes," Jimmy said. He gave Lina an uneasy look, obviously urging her to take over. 

"Mr. Collins, I think you should sit down," she said. "You too, Eric." Eric's knees felt suddenly weak as he complied. With another strangely uncomfortable glance at her partner, she went on. "We've received the results of the DNA analysis on the body in the cabin. Now, keep in mind this may not necessarily be good news-" 

"Just tell us," Collins said. 

"The DNA doesn't match the samples you gave us from Wes's hairbrush and toothbrush. The body we found isn't Wes." 

Eric sat still, not feeling much beyond numbness, barely aware of Collins saying something and the two detectives answering. Only one thought trailed through his mind. If the body wasn't Wes, then maybe he was alive. He turned the concept over a few times, letting it sink in, and then found himself on his feet, saying it. "Wes may still be alive!" 

"We don't want either of you to get your hopes up. He's still missing, and has been for almost a week." 

"But it's possible he's alive." 

"Yes, it's possible." 

"But the man in the cabin," Collins said, his voice bewildered. "He had Wes's morpher and ring. And his wallet." 

"He must have been involved somehow," Eric said. "Maybe he's the one who kidnapped Wes." 

"That seems like the best explanation," Jimmy agreed. "He took Wes's things. Then someone killed him. Possibly a partner. It wouldn't be the first time criminals had a fight over money, or whatever, and ended up killing each other." 

"Maybe he beat the guy's face in to keep us from identifying him." 

"Could be. Either that or some personal reason." 

Collins broke in. "But where's Wes? That's what's important right now!" 

Yes. Where. "They must have hidden him," Eric muttered, mostly to himself. Or his body. He refused to consider that possibility. 

"Hidden him. Where?" Lina asked. "The body was out in the forest. That cabin was a good hiding spot." 

"But Wes wasn't in the cabin." 

"Then what were they doing out in the middle of the woods? They must have put him somewhere nearby." 

"Somewhere safe. Where no one would look." 

"Somewhere he'd be unlikely to escape from." 

"Somewhere we still haven't found, after searching the area." 

"But where? The only building around there is the Warren house. We interviewed the housekeeper; she's been with them twenty years, don't think she'd be involved." 

"The Warren place..." The burned out cabin. The shovels... pickaxe... And then it hit him. Eric looked up at them, feeling a surge of excitement, and then a flash of horror. "Holy fucking shit! That coffin!" 

"The coffin?" Jimmy said blankly. 

Lina stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "A couple of uniforms searched the old Warren graveyard this morning. They couldn't find where it came from." 

"What are you talking about?" Collins asked. 

"A coffin I found on the hill above the cabin. It had to come from the Warren graveyard," Eric explained tensely. "If someone dug it up for a joke, they wouldn't have bothered to fill in the hole. But if they wanted to bury something in its place, if they wanted to hide something, and took out the coffin to make room..." 

"It would still look like someone had been digging, wouldn't it?" Lina asked. 

"There's not much grass in the woods, under the trees. All they had to do was smooth the surface and scatter some leaves and rocks over it." 

"Wait a minute!" Collins exclaimed. "Are you saying they buried Wes? You mean he's..." 

"No point going to all that trouble if he was dead. They would have just dumped his body in the nearest river," Eric said bluntly. "No, they did it to keep him hidden. And we've got to find him." And fast, he knew. Almost a week now. They could only hope he had been given enough food and water to survive. And that they could find him before it was too late. 

* * *

Wes ducked his head as more dirt fell. Progress had been slow at first; he had stopped to rest several times, trying to save his strength. Then he had hit on the idea of pulling the pipe out completely, resting the end on top of the side wall of the box, and using it to pry up one end of the board. That had worked well; it had come loose almost immediately. If he could get the other end free, the opening in the top of the box would be big enough for him to get through. He didn't know how deep he was. Didn't know if he could dig out. Didn't know what waited on the surface if he did. It was a gamble every way he looked at it. 

He peered up at the earth above him in the fading illumination of the flashlight. It hadn't given way, so far, just rained bits of soil on him until the bottom of the box was covered in it. He didn't want to think about the possibility of it all falling on him, trapping him, suffocating him in darkness. No choice, no choice. Wes reached up and pulled on the pipe, moving it to the other side of the box as a fresh shower of dirt fell. 

* * *

They gathered in front of the old Warren house, huddling against the rain in coats and hats. Impatiently, Eric looked uphill at where he knew the graveyard was, and then back at his companions. Collins, anxious and tense. Lina and Jimmy. Another cop, Officer Fredricks, whom they had managed to locate in the half hour they had taken to get here. And a dog. 

"We'll have a search team here in a few hours," Jimmy was saying. "But in the meantime, we can get started." He nodded toward the uniformed policeman and the dog. 

"You realize the rain today and the other night washed away most of the scent," Fredricks said. "Ginger's going to have a hard time finding anything, but we'll give it a shot. Do we have a sample for her?" 

"I brought a shirt Wes wore just before he disappeared," Collins said. He held it out, a red t-shirt Eric remembered seeing on his partner recently. The dog snuffled over it for several seconds and then raised her nose into the air and began to whine. 

"She's got it." 

"Then let's go," Eric said. 

They started uphill, silently, quickly reaching the area of the graveyard. Eric remembered it from his previous visits, but he hadn't taken much interest then. It wasn't much to look at, just a few old headstones and crosses here and there among the trees; not all together like most cemeteries but scattered through the woods, someone's idea of returning to nature probably, but all it meant now was that it would be harder to find Wes. Assuming he was really here at all. 

* * *

The board came loose, almost hitting Wes as it fell. Dirt rained down, a lot of it this time. Coughing, Wes covered his head with his arms and waited, heart thudding. It stopped. Cautiously he felt for the flashlight and looked. 

There was enough room now for him to get out. But the hardest part was still to come. He had to dig his way up through an unknown amount of earth. And he had to do it fast, the hole where the pipe had been had stayed open until now, but as soon as he started to dig it would almost certainly be blocked, cutting off his air. 

Wes wedged the flashlight in a mound of dirt and braced himself under the opening. The battery would be gone soon, he'd have to work in the dark. But maybe he'd be free by then. Not letting himself think of the other possibilities, he raised his hands, fingers clawing at damp earth. It was fairly loose, not as hard to get through as he had feared. He knelt and lifted the pipe, poking it up to break up the soil, trying to keep his face out of the way as it crumbled and fell in on him. 

* * *

Ginger whined, sniffing at the roots of a tree, then circled and doubled back. "Good girl," Fredricks said. "She's got something," he added to Eric. 

"You mean Wes was here?" Collins asked, eagerness struggling with anxiety in his face. 

"Yes, he was definitely here. She's picking up traces." They all watched as the dog set off across the ground, hesitated, and then stopped and whined. She sniffed the air and headed in a new direction. 

* * *

Dirt. It seemed like forever he had been surrounded by dirt, digging his fingers into it, the dank smell of it in his nostrils, pieces of it falling on his head and shoulders, particles of dirt making him cough and choke, all darkness and dampness now that he had left the dying flashlight behind to be buried. 

Wes struggled to dig farther, faster. He was numb with fatigue, his arms trembling, muscles aching. Could hardly move anymore. But he was on his knees, his head and shoulders out of the box at last, in the tunnel he had dug upwards. 

He had managed to keep a hold on the pipe which had served him so well, and now he jabbed it up again. It had become an endless, numbing routine. Jab with the pipe, break up the soil, protect his head as chunks dropped on him, push it down and kick it away into the far end of the box. Don't stop to think. Just keep going. 

* * *

"Damn!" Fredricks exclaimed as Ginger stopped again and began to sniff in circles. "With all this rain there's no trail to follow. She can't find him." The dog wagged her tail, looking up at them with what almost seemed like an apologetic expression. 

"Shit. We'll have to look for any place that looks disturbed. Anywhere someone might have been digging," Eric said. 

"If Wes is alive, there must be some way for him to breathe." Lina was beside him, blinking rain out of her eyes. She looked around, then back at them. "Look for -- for a hole, a pipe, a hollow branch sticking out of the ground. Anything unusual." 

"Good idea," Eric said. 

"We'd better split up. Cover more ground that way." 

* * *

There was the usual resistance -- Wes tried to push harder as he thrust the pipe into the soil -- and suddenly it moved up abruptly, breaking free. Before his tired mind could wonder at that, the dirt cascaded over him in a fresh wave, hitting hard enough to disorient him for a moment. It settled all around him, thick and heavy -- the collapse he had feared had happened, he was buried, suffocating... 

Wes coughed, choked, pushing muddy soil away from his face, trying to dig it away from his head, reaching his hands up to push it off -- and felt air. Cool, fresh air. Frantically he struggled to climb to his feet, and found some hidden reserve of strength, pushing upwards, freeing his head at last. Turning to look up, he saw light. Drops of water hit his face. A gray, dreary, rain-swept sky arched over him, laden with dark clouds. Wes thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

* * *

They had separated, each moving on his or her own through the woods, searching. Eric tried to keep hoping, tried not to let his heart sink farther with each step, with each grave he inspected. Nothing so far. The search team would arrive soon -- but what if they did no better? What if they had to give up, what if they never found Wes...? 

No, that wouldn't happen. Even if they had to dig up every grave on this mountainside; if he had to spend the rest of his life searching. Eric's fists clenched as he turned away from yet another headstone and looked around for more. Where was he? Wes was here, somewhere close, lost and alone, suffering. He could feel it. But where? How were they going to find him? Suddenly the pressure of that question was unbearable, suddenly he couldn't help it as he filled his lungs and shouted into the rain, as loudly as he could. 

"WEEEEEES!!" 

He slumped, too dejected to even be embarrassed at his outburst. But then... Had that been a voice, half-heard through the soft patter of raindrops hitting the dirt? Eric froze, listening. The dog yelped eagerly somewhere nearby. Then it came again. 

* * *

He had reached the surface. But he still wasn't free; the soil around him had collapsed into the tunnel he had dug, leaving him still trapped in a small pit, buried up to the shoulders. Wes reached up again, tried to get a grip on something solid, tried to get out. But the surface was muddy and slippery, and he was so weak he could hardly raise his arms, let alone climb out. 

Frustration gave him the energy to try again. Wes stretched up, tried to lift a foot, searching for a toehold, struggling to move in the tight confines of the hole he was stuck in. His hand found the pipe, and he braced himself with it, managing to move up enough to get his upper body out and his eyes above ground level, to look around at trees and bushes. With a groan he reached out for a nearby rock, whimpering when it only came loose in his hand. He was too weak -- even if he got out, how was he going to find help, with no idea of where he was...? 

And then he heard a voice. Like the voice in his dreams, it seemed to drift to him on the breeze, faint and indistinct, and yet he recognized it at once. Taking a deep breath, he shouted. 

"Eric!" It came out as a hoarse croak. Wes tried again, this time louder. "ERRIIC!" There was another sound, a dog barking. He shouted again, scrambling frantically to get free. 

Sounds. More voices shouting, running footsteps. Wes twisted, trying to look in that direction. Someone was coming, a man, dark hair, his face blurred by the rain, but Wes knew him. "Eric..." he said one more time, before hands were pulling him up, dragging him out; arms were around him so tightly he could hardly breathe, but he didn't mind at all, and cool raindrops were mingling with warm tears when Eric released him into his father's embrace. 

* * *

It was later, how much later Wes didn't really know. Long enough for him to be taken home, and to start feeling human again after a good meal and a much-needed shower. Long enough for the Collins family doctor to arrive and examine him, treat his various scrapes and bruises, pronounce him starved, dehydrated, and exhausted but otherwise not seriously damaged. The police had wanted to take him to the hospital, but all he had wanted was home, his own room, his own bed; and with his father to back him up that was what had happened. 

"Maybe it's just as well you didn't go to the hospital." Lina Munroe was looking him over thoughtfully as he lay back in bed with a sigh. They were all in his bedroom, Lina, Jimmy, his father, Philips fussing with the pillows, the doctor putting his instruments away after giving Wes an antibiotic and a mild sedative, even Fredricks, although he had left his dog downstairs. And of course Eric, who was standing silently beside the bed, his eyes on Wes's face. 

"Yes, of course he feels better at home," Collins said. 

"Probably. But that's not what I meant." Lina paused. "Wes. You're sure it was Russell Holland you saw in the woods?" 

"I'm pretty sure. I saw blond hair, couldn't see his face very well, but I recognized him. And I heard his voice." 

"Still, you were drugged. That identification might not hold up. The other man you saw, any idea who it was?" 

"No." 

"I have a feeling he's the one who ended up dead in that cabin, with his face bashed in and burned so we couldn't identify him and find a connection to Holland. We need time to get more evidence... need to look into Holland's background, try to identify the dead man, get a search warrant for Holland's house before he has a chance to destroy anything he may have there. From what you say, he knows you recognized him. That's probably why he left you to die. And as soon as he knows you're alive, he'll know he's in trouble. He might bolt before we could get an arrest warrant." 

"What are you suggesting?" Collins asked. 

"I called off the search team, but I didn't say why. At this point we're the only ones who know Wes has been found. I'm suggesting we keep it quiet. Give us a chance to get enough to arrest Holland. With luck it'll only take a day." 

"But -- the funeral's tomorrow." 

"You can quietly call off the burial. But go ahead with the service. Holland will be there, won't he? We'll try to execute the search warrant then, when he's not home." 

"Wes? Eric? What do you think?" 

"I think it's a good idea," Eric said. "Anything that'll help put Holland away." 

"Sounds good to me, too," Wes added, fighting off a yawn. "Always wanted to go to my own funeral."

* * *

TBC... 


	7. Day Seven: Outside the Box

Wes, Eric, and Mr. Collins belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.  
Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine. 

Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense. 

This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this. 

Last chapter - many thanks to everyone for reviewing; it means a lot to me. Special thanks to Rach for feedback on several scenes and various encouragement. And of course to my wonderful betas, Cecilia and Jenny. 

Messalina : Wife of the Roman emperor Claudius; she was supposedly the most promiscuous woman in Rome, and had the nasty habit of having her enemies executed on false charges. Eventually she was herself executed after bigamously marrying one of her lovers. (Why I used that name, I haven't a clue.) 

**Boxed In**

* * *

Day Seven - Outside the Box

* * *

Eric raised his chin, looking over the faces of the mourners. It didn't matter what they thought of him, or whether they suspected him. Wes was alive, that was all that mattered, in the end. Everyone would know the truth soon enough. Everyone... including the man who had caused all of this. 

Couldn't let his eyes linger on Russell Holland's face, couldn't let anyone see the fury he felt at the thought of what Holland had done to Wes. To all of them. He smiled -- but only on the inside. Let Holland think he was safe, that Wes was dead and no one knew the truth, for a little while longer. Eric only hoped he was there when it happened, when Holland felt the cuffs on his wrists and heard himself being charged with kidnapping and attempted murder. 

He pulled his thoughts back to here and now, to Wes's funeral and the eulogy he was giving. With a glance down at his notes, he went on. "People liked Wes. That's why most of you are here. He was liked by almost everyone who knew him, not just for being his father's son, but for himself." Not what he had said when they had argued, but this was the way he really felt. Too bad Wes wasn't here to hear it. He still hadn't apologized. Last night, by the time the plans were made and the detectives had left, it had been late, and Wes had been tired... 

They had all gone, closing the bedroom door, leaving him alone with Wes for a few moments. He took the hand Wes held up to him. They just looked at each other until Eric sat on the side of the bed, the other hand reaching to brush back Wes's hair, to trace the lines of his face. "Nice to see you again," he said softly. 

"Nice to be here," Wes murmured. "I missed you. Did you miss me?" 

"You have no idea..." Eric leaned down, seeing Wes smile softly as their lips came closer... but then straightened quickly at the sound of the door opening. 

"Oh. Sorry to interrupt." It was Alan Collins, his eyes quickly jumping to Wes's hand still in his, and then away. 

"Dad..." Wes hesitated, his eyes finding Eric's and then returning to his father. "Dad, does Eric have to leave?" 

"No, not if you want him to stay." Collins' face was neutral when Eric looked at him, startled. 

"Would it be all right with you?" 

"I understand that he doesn't want to be alone tonight. Of course it's all right." 

So he had stayed, locking the door, taking off his outer clothes, and finally sliding into the bed. Wes had been almost out by that time, exhausted by his ordeal and feeling the effects of the sedative the doctor had given him to help him sleep. They had held each other, a pang going through Eric as he felt Wes's ribs a little more prominent than before, the bones of his spine sharp under his fingers. 

Wes had murmured something indistinct, sighed, and relaxed against him. Eric had watched him sleep, reassured by the motion of his breathing as it deepened and slowed, and by the heartbeat he could feel when he pressed his hand to Wes's chest. At some point his own eyes had closed, and he had drifted into the first peaceful sleep he had had for the last week. 

"Wes was a Collins, a Silver Guardian, a Ranger. But he was more than all of those things. Most of all, he was my friend." Eric took another look around the room, at the eyes staring back at him. 

Lina had her cellphone to her ear. As he paused, watching, she whispered something to Jimmy, looked up at the podium, and nodded. 

And then the door at the back of the room was opening. A man stood there, silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight, other forms crowding behind him. He stepped inside. A murmur rose from the people in the back, a ripple of scattered gasps and exclamations running over the mourners as they twisted to look; then a few sharp cries of astonishment and shock, a wave of people moving, staring, jumping to their feet... 

It was Wes, walking up the aisle at a deliberate pace, a hard smile on his face, several uniformed police and a few Silver Guardians at his back. He caught Eric's eye for a moment before advancing to where Russell Holland was seated at the end of a row, turning, and facing him. Holland had gone white, his mouth opening and closing silently. 

"Aren't you glad to see me, Russell?" Wes asked conversationally. 

"I -- what -- you're supposed to be dead!" 

"You sound almost disappointed. Why would that be?" 

"No -- I'm, I'm happy you're all right..." 

"No good, Russell. I recognized you as one of the men who buried me alive and left me to die. The police just executed a search warrant on your house. They found ID belonging to someone named Chris Watson. An old high school friend of yours from out of town, apparently. His car was found abandoned not far from your house. No license plates or registration, but you forgot the VIN tags, didn't you? I'm betting a DNA test will prove he's the body in the cabin." 

Holland lurched to his feet and backed down the aisle as Wes continued. "They found a pair of shoes in your apartment, covered in dirt that looks like it came from the Warren graveyard. Detected bloodstains in your car. I think they'll match the dead man. They found my car, ditched in the woods not far from the graveyard. Might be more evidence in that. But they already have more than enough." 

He stepped face to face with Holland, who fell back again. Eric had approached from behind him; he felt Holland jump as he laid a heavy hand on the taller man's shoulder, stopping him. 

"They told me they found your plan, too, Russell," Wes said softly. "All written out, in every detail. You needed money. You kidnapped me to get it. What happened then? When I woke up and saw you, you panicked? You decided to leave me there, to die slowly of hunger and thirst, locked up in that damn box?" 

"No!" Holland suddenly seemed to come to life, trying to pull free from Eric's grasp. "No, you can't prove it! You can't do this!" 

"It's over, Russell. Maybe you'll find out just a little of how I felt while you're trying to stay off death row." Wes held up a hand as Jimmy stepped forward, handcuffs ready. "Just one more thing..." he murmured. He turned back to Holland, staring at him for a moment, then with a quick motion pulled back a fist and hit him, hard, across the face. Holland staggered back. Eric roughly pushed him upright again. 

"He -- he assaulted me!" Holland gasped. 

"Just consider yourself lucky," Eric growled softly. "If Wes didn't hit you, _I_ would have." 

"You're going to have a lot more to worry about than a sock in the jaw," Lina said with an unfriendly smile. She nodded at Jimmy. 

"Russell Holland, you're under arrest for the murder of Christopher Watson and the kidnapping and attempted murder of Wesley Collins. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..." 

* * *

Lina stood outside the funeral home as Russell Holland was put inside a squad car. She had rarely felt so much satisfaction at the conclusion of a case. Of course, this wasn't over by a long shot, there was still more evidence to gather, the trial to go through... 

"He _will_ be convicted, won't he? He won't get away with it?" 

Alan Collins' voice had echoed her own thoughts. She smiled at him. "I'm as confident as I've ever been about a case. It was considerate of him to write his plan down, and to be stupid enough not to destroy it. With that, we have enough evidence to put him away right now, and we're going to get more. And of course it helps to have the victim's testimony. I'm sure Wes will be very convincing to a jury." 

"Good." He stood beside her, watching the police cars disappear into the distance, and then turned. She followed his gaze to see Wes and Eric standing together a few yards away. "You found out quite a bit about my family," he went on, his voice lowered. "I hope not all of it has to be made public." 

"Whatever is just hearsay, or suspicion -- and whatever turned out to be irrelevant to the crime -- there's no need for it to even go into the file." 

"Does Detective Duran feel the same way?" 

"He does. We're not completely heartless, no matter what Eric would probably tell you. And you can tell him not to worry about his neighbors, either. The adults never noticed anything, or that's what they said." 

"You're all right, Detective Munroe." 

"Why, thank you, Mr. Collins." 

"So -- so tell me, is there a Mr. Munroe?" 

"Well..." She smiled, not looking up at him. "I was married for about five minutes twenty years ago. But not since then." 

"Ah. Engaged? Involved?" 

"No and no." 

"Do you have a first name?" 

This time she grinned. "Yes. It's Messalina." 

"Messalina?" When she looked up, he was grinning too. "Unusual name. But a famous one." 

"You mean infamous. Now that you know my disgraceful secret, you can call me Lina." 

"Well, Lina -- I'm kind of out of practice at this, but... would you like to get a cup of coffee or something when you have time?" 

"Yes, I'd like that, Mr. Collins, sir." 

He smiled as they started for the cars. "Great. And I have a first name, too, you know." 

"Being a professional detective, I suspected that." 

* * *

Wes sighed contentedly, relaxing at last in Eric's bed. They had gone to the police station from the funeral home, and Wes had found himself in an impromptu press conference in front of the building when they left. Then an hour at Bio-Lab, where he had tried to check on Silver Guardian business and ended up spending his time with a parade of friends and co-workers welcoming him back. All of it had been moving, and a little overwhelming. But most of all he had wanted to get away, to be somewhere quiet. Even more important, where he and Eric could be alone. They had met here, at Eric's house, as soon as they could both get away. 

They hadn't needed many words, so far, they had simply come inside, pulled each other's clothes off, and made love with an intensity that caught both of them off-guard. Eric had been as gentle and careful at first as he had been back at the beginning, when Wes had those broken ribs. It had been touching -- until Wes had demonstrated that he already had a good part of his strength back... He smiled at the memory of the last twenty minutes. 

"What?" Eric was propped on an elbow, watching him, stroking his arm. 

"Just -- happy to be here." 

"Me too." 

"Thanks for staying last night. I know you must have felt uncomfortable." 

"I wanted to stay. It was worth it just to see you in those stupid-looking pajamas." Eric smiled for a moment, but then his face changed, some unpleasant emotion flickering over it. 

This time it was Wes who asked, "What is it?" 

"I'm sorry." 

"It wasn't your fault-" 

"That stupid fight -- that could have been the last time we talked to each other." 

"Forget the damn fight. I have." 

"We came so close to never seeing each other again." 

"I know. I thought about you, a lot. Wondered what you'd do if you were there. That's part of what kept me going." 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

Wes frowned, glancing away. "I don't know." 

"You should. Almost a week, locked up in that little box. I can't even imagine what it must have been like." 

"Must have been hard on you too, being a suspect." 

"It was. Not to mention thinking you were dead." Eric's mouth smiled for an instant, but his eyes darkened. "But it was much worse for you." 

"But it's over now. I'm out, I'm okay." Wes avoided Eric's watchful eyes, and sighed. "I don't even want to think about it," he muttered. 

"But you will. It'll come out, sooner or later." Eric hesitated, but then went on. "I saw your face, when you cornered Holland. When you hit him. You looked like you wanted to kill him." 

"Yeah, I wanted to kill him. And yeah, I hit him. Wouldn't you have felt the same way, and done the same thing?" Wes demanded. He sat up. "Five days in that stinking box. Thirsty, starving, pissing in a bucket, for Christ's sake. All because of that asshole! How am I supposed to feel?" 

"Look, I'm not blaming you for anything." Eric paused, looking hesitant. "I guess I'm trying to say -- it wasn't like you. You've gone through something terrible, something that could end up changing you. And I don't want that to happen. Don't keep it in, get help if you need it. Please." 

The flash of anger faded as Wes looked at Eric's face and realized he was right; the box couldn't just be forgotten. Some part of him would always stay trapped inside it, alone and afraid, if he let it. Painful as it was, what he felt needed to come out, even if he wasn't sure what it was and didn't know if he had the words to express it. 

"All that time..." he said finally, hesitantly, looking away. "All I could think about was dying -- all alone, never seeing you or Dad again... I felt so helpless..." He trailed off. The physical discomfort, the hunger, the thirst. But most of all, the fear. The times he had given up, the image of himself huddled and crying; it filled him now with shame, humiliation, and anger... "There's been times I thought I was going to die before, lots of them. But this time... I gave up, Eric. First I sat around and waited for someone to come and save me. Then I just waited to die." 

"This time was different. No enemy to fight." 

"Just the box." Wes shook his head. "Maybe you were right about me. That I'm just a spoiled brat, always relying on Dad, or you, when things get really rough." 

"Stop thinking like that. You _did_ fight the box. You got yourself out, didn't you?" 

"I was lucky. If it hadn't rained, if that grave had been deeper, if you guys hadn't been there looking for me..." 

"You did it. All by yourself. The 'ifs' don't count." 

"I gave up. Just lay down and gave up." 

"Don't you think anyone would have felt the same way? Including me? I was ready to give up, too, to let them put me in jail. But you got up again, and fought. You're a lot stronger than you think. Always have been." 

"I'm still afraid. I don't want to close my eyes and go to sleep, because I'm afraid I'll wake up back in that box..." 

"It'll get better, you just need time..." Eric sighed. "I wish there was some way I could help." 

"You're helping right now." Wes lay down again, looked into concerned dark eyes, and tried to smile. 

Eric leaned in until their lips barely touched, lingering for a few seconds before murmuring, "I know I don't say it enough..." 

"You don't have to, I know. I love you too." 

And there was no more need for words.   
  


- End -


End file.
